Remind Me To Never Forget
by moonlessmondays
Summary: Robert has always thought he'd live the rest of his life with Cora. But when tragedy struck, and she's left with no recollection of her life with him, he feels hope being dashed out of him. He'll fight, oh he'll fight for her, for he knows no other way, but will she believe in what she doesn't even know? And will her heart remember what her mind has forgotten? Cobert Modern AU
1. 1-I met you, now forget you

_Finally._

 _I know I'm not a great writer, but it would mean everything if you'd give it a chance!_

 _Thank you my lovely Emma for all your help. Love you._

Un-beta'd. All mistakes are mine.

 **All disclaimers apply.**

* * *

 ** _Chapter One_**

Time is a fickle thing—it can either pass by entirely too quickly or excruciatingly slow. Sometimes, one can hear time tick and tick, the seconds slowly melting away into minutes, and the minutes seem to drag on and on, the hours can feel like years. Sometimes, one does not even feel it pass by, and it's like a breeze, passing by and in a blink of an eye, it's gone and everything's changed. Time can go on and on, eternal and on a loop, but it stops, momentarily, pauses when the moment is right.

It is steady and stable, yet it is relative, and no one really knows what can happen in a matter of minutes. It is meaningful and meaningless. It is important, yet it is far too easy to take it for granted.

For Robert Crawley, right in this moment every second counts, yet he isn't even aware anymore of time passing. Every heartbeat reverberates against his ear loudly, his heart thumping in an erratic rhythm, mocking him it seems. Every breath he takes feels heavy, too heavy.

"She's going to be okay, Robert," his sister, Rosamund, tells him as she gingerly places a hand on his tensed shoulders.

He turns to her, eyes wild and doubtful, the plethora of emotions swirling inside of him leaving him breathless, overwhelmed, and unable to process anything but the fear residing in him, taking roots in his chest.

"You don't know that," he snaps at her, though he doesn't really mean to, it's not Rosamund's fault. But really, Ros doesn't know that, neither does he, and the pain emanating from deep within his chest is too much, it's making him weak, festering, infiltrating his mind, and his thoughts are becoming his own poison. "No one knows that," he adds quietly.

Rosamund frowns, her hand circling his shoulder now, and she gives him a gentle squeeze—firm and reassuring, meant for him to know that he isn't alone, a boost. "She's a fighter, your wife," she tells him, and he knows that, of course, he does, and he agrees too. But how many battles, how long does she have to fight until she is no longer a fighter and the will to fight is gone? "She has survived Mama all these years, she can win this fight too, Robert. She's going to be fine."

Robert grunts, but offers his sister no reply, because what is there left to say? Whilst verbally sparring with Mama and taking criticisms and jibes on a daily basis does require a good fight and a sturdy backbone, this is different. Being involved in an accident is different. Fighting for your life is an entirely different story. At this point, he just wants his wife to wake, to smile at him again, and taunt him or tease him, to stick her often freezing toes against his, to see her vibrant blue eyes—twinkling in mirth or mischief. He doesn't have a clue what's going to happen, but he just needs her to be okay.

He hears Rosamund sigh before she drops her hand and encloses hers around his,, gives it a gentle, reassuring squeeze, and Robert feels as though somehow, at least a piece of him pieces itself back together.

It's a long way, but it's a start.

 **(…)**

He doesn't know how much time has passed from the time he's gotten the call from the hospital that his wife had been rushed in, to the moment he burst through the hospital entrance like a wild man, frantic and scared, to that moment, now, that he sees the doctor coming out of the operating room, walking towards where he and his sister are seated.

Robert stands from one of those horrid plastic chairs he's occupied and walks up to meet the doctor halfway. The question itches up in his tongue, and he bites it down because he isn't sure he can even be proper or stable right now, considering how frenetic he feels at the moment.

"Are you Mrs. Crawley's family?" the young doctor asks, his brown eyes settling on Robert and then shifting to Rosamund who has come up to stand beside her brother.

"Yes," Robert responds, nodding. "I'm her husband."

"I'm Doctor Riley. I'm your wife's attending physician," the Doctor says, offering Robert his hand.

Robert extends his hand to shake the doctor's proffered one. "How is she? How's my wife?"

"So far we've stabilized her," the doctor answers, his voice is firm but gentle, it's almost soothing. Hs eyes are soft and sympathetic. "She has two broken ribs, and she broke her left leg, she has some bruises and scrapes, but no internal damage. She's very lucky."

Robert sighs in relief, his tensed shoulder deflating, and the hands he isn't even aware he's balled into fists, unclenching on his sides.

"She's still unconscious, but we're moving her now to a more private room," Doctor Riley adds. "The blow to her head caused some trauma, but other than caution for possible concussion, we are yet to know the extent of her injuries when she wakes."

"What do you mean, Doctor?" Robert asks, instinctively knowing that there is more to what the doctor is saying.

"There might be some cognitive damage, because of the trauma," Doctor Riley explains. He hesitates, pauses, before breathing in and out. "She might suffer from memory loss, but that something cannot fully asses, it isn't definite, until she awakens."

The words feel like a bucket of cold water poured all over him-jolting and bone-chilling, because what, what is he supposed to do if his wife can't, _doesn't_ , remember him? How is he supposed to go on when the one person that matters most to him does not even know who he is?

"It's a possibility," the doctor tells him, and he isn't even sure at this point if it's supposed to be reassuring, because it really is _not_ working. "We're only looking at it as a possibility."

But the panic rising inside Robert as the words sink in does not tamper down with the doctor's cautious reassurances. It only intensifies—the bile rises to his throat and the world feels like it's closing in around him.

"Thank you, doctor," Rosamund says in his stead, as he is slow to do it himself. She stands beside him, nudging him slightly, reeling him back to reality and out of him poisonous thoughts.

The doctor nods. "The nurse will inform you of the room number once Mrs. Crawley's been transferred," he says to them before bidding them goodbye when his beeper goes off.

"Robert," Ros whispers as she gives his arm a gentle squeeze. "She's okay, Robert. She's okay."

Robert breathes in, the words permeating through the bubble he's created for himself. He could feel his legs giving out on him, feels Rosamund pull him towards the chairs, sitting him down and settling him. He can feel the motions, lets his sister lead him, but he isn't sure of what he's happening.

But his wife is okay, she's okay. She's made it through, and she's okay.

"She's alright," he echoes, feeling like a child as the information settles in his brain. It feels surreal—like all of this has only been a bad dream, but it isn't. God, it isn't. It's all been real. "She's alright," he repeats, as if to convince himself, and yes, maybe he is.

"She is," Rosamund assures him, "Now, you have to pull yourself together before you go to her. Be strong. She needs you to be…she's going to need you so much."

He breathes in deeply. Rosamund is right. His wife needs him now, needs him to be beside her, and right beside her he will be.

 **(…)**

She is beautiful, even with the tubes and machines hooked and attached to her, even with the bruises and scrapes covering the surface of her skin, she is beautiful—so fragile and so beautiful that it breaks his heart to even look at her. But look at her he does, because he is afraid that if he looks away even for a second, she might disappear.

He takes a seat next to her bed and takes her hand in his, holding on to it, hoping that she would help anchor him through this sea of pain he's drowning in.

"Oh Cora," he breathes out as he places a kiss against her knuckles. Tears press against his eyes and he is barely able to stop them from flowing down his cheeks. He holds on to her tighter, her lack of response weighing heavily on his chest. "I'm so sorry, darling."

He is supposed to protect her, supposed to make sure that this doesn't happen. He should have driven her, should have been there for her, maybe he could have prevented this from happening.

He should have done something, could have done something.

He only wishes now that she is fine, and that she awakens soon, for his heart feels heavy, feels so alone without her. And as their future remains to be unseen, remains to be a mystery (will she remember him? Does she still have her memories? Or will he be a distant, forgotten memory?)—he feels unable to breathe.

"Please, wake up my darling," he pleads with his sleeping wife, trying to push the negative thoughts away. He can only slay one dragon at a time, and _this_ is enough dragon to slay for him at the moment. He lifts her hands and brushes his lips once more against her skin. He is sorely disappointed and more than just a little hurt when his pleas continue to fall on deaf ears.

 **(…)**

Hour stretch into days, and it sees no progress in his wife's condition. She's still under a coma, fast asleep, oblivious to the world around him, oblivious to his pain and the deep twinge in his chest that arises whenever he sees her laying in her hospital bed, unmoving.

His heart aches everyday for her, it breaks and until she awakens, he isn't sure how to piece the parts back together. And there is always that matter of her possibly losing her memories (god, could the doctor have left that out for him instead?).

His family tries to help him, in any and every way they can, but nothing helps. As it is, he can barely drag himself away from her, he sets up vigil by her side, only ever agreeing to go home to shower. But he stays by her side, doesn't want her to wake and find herself alone, and he isn't there. Rosamund offers her silent but steady support, and so does her husband, Duke. Mama and Papa are even more quiet, but he knows that they are there for him, for his wife. His wife's mother, Martha, is there too, having arrived a few days prior, and she is anything but silent (for she is not herself is she is not loud, Robert muses), badgering him to take breaks and go home to sleep and shower when she thinks he's overdoing it. But she is there for her daughter, for him, too. And all in all, Robert is grateful.

Honestly, now he just wants his wife to be awake, needs to see her awake, smiling up at him, vibrant blue eyes peering up at him.

It's been weeks now, and still, she lays asleep, the monitor beeping as her heart remains steady—his consolation, is that she's stable and healing. But he misses her, misses her too much.

"She's never the one to go out without a bang, you know, my daughter," Martha tells hm one day. They have spent many weeks together sitting by his wife's bedside, sometimes sharing silence, but often sharing tales of the woman lying steadfastly on the bed (mostly, Martha regales him stories of his wife when she was younger, long before they've met and fallen in love).

Robert remains silent, even as he shifts to look at the flamboyant woman beside him.

"She likes to make a statement," Martha continues, shaking her head and smiling fondly, albeit a bit sadly. "She doesn't say much, doesn't even interact much with others, but when she does, she likes to leave an impression, the whole shebang."

Robert nods his assent. He knows this, know that his wife does not do anything halfway. She always goes all out.

"Cora _is_ many things," he agrees, smiling, remembering the times his wife's exploded in ager, the many times she's impressed him with the things she can do, the things she does. She is _everything_.

"She is. But most of all, Cora is a survivor," Martha says, her eyes falling to her daughter's sleeping form. "She is good at adapting, surviving. She fits in well, without losing who she is. And she is a fighter."

"That's what Rosamund said," he admits to his mother-in-law, and he does believe it, he really does. He knows it. "And it's what I know. I know she'll pull through." He pauses, sighs and tries to keep his voice from breaking. "I just want her to be awake now."

He looks at her, at Cora, his heart feeling like it's being held in a vise grip as she remains sleeping, unmoving. It's almost been a month now, and though most of her physical damages have healed nicely by now, she still remains dead to the world.

"Cora, please," he begs quietly, and when she fails to respond, he excuses himself, needing a moment alone for he feels he might break down from the feeling of everything weighing him down.

He just really needs his wife back.

 **(….)**

She feels pain…so much pain radiating from the base of her skull to her forehead, to her temples, and good god, every part of her body. Her muscles feel like they are on fire, and even as she attempts to just tilt her head, they protest. She feels like she's been run over by a truck.

Oh, how wonderful.

She groans, trying unsuccessfully to command her eyes to open. They feel heavy, and her mind is telling her that she should sleep it off, that trying to awaken when she has this much pain residing in her head is a bad idea.

She hears someone say her name frantically, excitably, and she isn't entirely sure who it is, the voice is indistinctive and a bit far, and her brain is just a tad bit too hazy to decipher whose voice it is. She tries again to open her eyes, and slowly, they flutter open. Her vision is blurry, the images she sees are nothing more than shapes and silhouettes with color, and she blinks, and blinks again until she maintains focus and the blurry images become clearer, the colors and shapes taking a definite picture.

The light overhead blinds her and she shuts her eyes abruptly, momentarily blinded by such a bright light.

Where is she?

And wherever the hell she is, what is she doing there?

The questions are left unanswered as she feels someone take her hand and squeezes it. She opens her eyes again and she finds her mother peering up at her, a small watery smile tilting her painted lips up. Mother's eyes are tearful as well, and she almost can't believe it as she sees moisture trailing down her mother's cheek. She reaches out to wipe it away, groaning slightly at the effort it took for her to even move her arm.

Her mother chuckles, warm but obviously joyous, and she feels light, feels like she's done something right if mother is acting that way. She lifts her brow in question, because she can't speak, her throat feels so dry—and gods, she needs water, now.

"I'm okay," mother says as she smiles again and reaches towards the side table to get a cup of water. Mother offers it to her, holding up the straw so she can sip properly, even as she remains lying in bed.

She takes a long sip, gulps the water greedily, feeling instant relief as the cold beverage slides down her throat and the fire in her throat recedes, and it feels no more than sandpaper—scratchy and rough, but at least it's not burning.

"Thank you," she croaks out, reaching out again to clasp her mother's wrist with her hand and gving it a gentle squeeze. She gives her mother a wobbly smile.

"Glad to see you awake," says a young man beside her mother, who seems to have sprout up from nowhere. His smile is soft and gentle, and his brown eyes are settled on her with warmth in them that she almost feels safe. "I'm Dr. Blake, your physician," he introduces himself, and, ah, that's why he looks so polished.

But wait, what, she's in the hospital? Why? When did that happen? There are a million question running through her head, but her doctor beats her to it.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

"Like death warmed over," she quips, thinking nothing of it, until mother throws her a look. "I'm fine. Just, my head, I feel like a marching band has taken residence on my skull."

"It's normal," he says, nodding. "I'll have the nurse bring something in for the pain, but don't be so alarmed, it's normal for someone who suffered through a head injury."

She wants to nod, tries actually, but the movement only adds up to her pain, and so she settles down, her lips twitching.

He asks her a few more question, if anything hurts, and where, if she is feeling any discomfort, etcetera, and she answers his question, though somewhat mechanically because she's still trying to get her bearings. A nurse comes in and hands her the painkillers which she pops in her mouth easily, washing it down with the water, before she turns to the doctor.

"So, I'm in the hospital?" she asks unnecessarily. She knows she is, he's her physician for god's sake. "What happened?"

Her mother then gasps and looks at her disbelievingly—or is that fear in mother's eyes, she doesn't know—before squeezing her hand once again. "Don't you remember what happened darling?"

She'd shake her head if she could, but that would be painful so instead she murmurs a no and bites down her lips because something feels wrong. Is she supposed to remember? Yes, probably yes. But what is she to remember? She is probably involved in a car accident, and now she's out of the woods—so to speak—so what is the matter?

Before she can ponder more about that, the door bursts open, and a man comes charging in the room, his eyes wild but totally excited, and she'd think it's adorable, if only she's not missing half of what she is supposed to remember. She thinks that his are the most beautiful eyes she's ever laid eyes on, and he is quite handsome, his lips are curved (he looks happy even when he's frantic), and the twinkle in his eyes as they lay on her form—that's something she's not about to forget anytime soon.

The said man flings his arms around her gingerly and hugs her tight to him. Mercifully, her lungs don't protest, only her brain. What the hell is going on in here?

She pushes the man away and then she has to look away when a sad expression fills his eyes. It's a deep pang in her chest that she cannot place. A familiar feeling of heartache that she isn't even sure she's experienced before.

"Robert, darling, slow down," her mother says slowly but sternly, and Robert backs away from her, as if burned.

He stares at her, she can feel it, even if she isn't looking back at him. She is about to tell him, them, something—anything, but she doesn't know what. Luckily, the handsome young doctor saves her.

"Ma'am, do you remember anything from your accident?" the doctor asks.

She feels Robert's and Mother's eyes on her and she tries not to buckle under the pressure. "No," she murmurs. "I don't."

The doctor nods slowly. "Do you know who you are? Your name?" he asks once more.

She tamps down the urge to laugh, because what a ridiculous question—of course, she does. "Cora Levinson," she says softly but certainly. What do they think they're getting at?

Both mother and Robert gasps, and she isn't sure why, she isn't sure why the doctor is shaking his head too, as though he is only realizing how much damage the accident really has made on her brain—and that is probably the case.

"Do you know who I am?" the Robert guy asks her, and she bites her tongue, mother literally just mentioned his name…but other than that, she really doesn't know him.

God, she wishes that the pill knocked her out for a few more hours…maybe she can face this better when she's had enough sleep and no little dwarves hammering away in her head or something.

"Who are you?" she tosses back at him, and he looks at her, crestfallen, looking very ready to just breakdown and cry. What the hell is going on?

"Tell me what date it is," the doctor asks of her. And really, are these people a bunch of nutjobs or something?

"October 2009?" she says, feeling uncertain now.

Mother gasps from beside her and the Robert fellow looks like the world just caved around him. The doctor remains passive, but he looks like he's uncovered something that's made him sad. He shakes his head slowly, slightly, almost imperceptibly, but she's seen it.

"Miss Levinson, this is Robert Crawley, he's your husband," the doctor says slowly, gesturing to the man who looks like his world just crumbled to his feet, and she isn't sure how to process that little tidbit. Married? She is married? How? Why? "And it's not 2009 it's October 2015," he continues, making a sharp gasp escape her mouth.

Is this a joke? Because if it is, then it's certainly funny. But one look at her mother's and Robert's faces, she realizes it is anything but.

* * *

 _Now you begin to wonder what the fuss was all about. Tell me what you think! Yay or nay? Should I continue? :)_


	2. 2- When the light is burning low

**This took so long, I'm sorry. The truth is this chapter didn't get saved the first time I wrote it and I was so frustrated that it took me a long while to get back to it and be able to write anything without wanting to throw my laptop across the room. Hopefully, this was worth the wait. Sorry it's a bit on the short side, but I just need to get Robert's feeling out there :D**

 **I just want to quickly thank my fandom mommy, Latifraise for her encouragements. Also, my wifey Emma who's just been the nicest, most patient person in the planet.**

 **Enjoy my gorgeous sailors!**

* * *

 ** _Chapter Two_**

 _When the light is burning low_

It's a distinctive kind of heartbreak to know that his wife can no longer remember him, their love, can no longer remember spending a part of her life with him. He is nothing, no one, but a stranger to her. In a different circumstance, she might pass him by and not realize that they love each other, that she is his wife.

He will be just another face in the sea of people to her.

He cannot possibly fathom how he is supposed to live like this…cannot possibly be expected to live like this, because what if she never remembers, what then? What if she decides that along the loss of her memory, she's had a change of heart as well? And what if what they had before isn't enough?

He feels bile rise up to his throat and if he had eaten anything that day, he might even feel sick, might even vomit. The thoughts that are running in his head are of no help to his current state and he can't help but clench his fists and punch the wall before him repeatedly, until he is tired and his knuckles are sufficiently bruised.

"Robert?" he hears her sister's voice from behind him, merely a whisper but loud enough to echo in his head. She's finally made it to his side, finding him in the back alley of the hospital building where he is currently bent over, his hands still balled into fists and leaning against the wall for support. He can hardly support himself enough to stand straight. He is tired, so goddamned tired. And he feels exposed, even as the back alley provides enough privacy for him to conceal his emotions. The moon's silvery glow barely filters through the miniscule space, the light streams through in glimpses.

He should have known Ros would come and find him.

"Robert, are you alright?" Ros asks unnecessarily as she places her hand warm against his shoulder, soothing, rubbing up and down, back and forth.

He bites down a retort of _do I look alright to you,_ instead he clamps his mouth shut and jerks a nod, not at all willing to trust his voice at the moment, until he calms down considerably, at least.

But he knows he cannot calm down, not when things are like this, and the fury he feels consumes him, it is dark and destructive and god, he wants to hurt someone, something, throw things, punch the wall repeatedly again, until his knuckles bleed and his legs give out. His hand is already smarting like a bitch as it is, he feels he might have broken it, his skin has a blotch of red blood, but he doesn't care, only wants to have another go at the unsuspecting wall in front of him. He can't care less if he breaks his bone trying.

It doesn't match the pain of his heart braking anyway.

"Robert?" his sister repeats, clearly afraid now because of his lack of response.

He grunts, some sort of reply, the only one he could make at this time, and turns his head away so Rosamund won't see the tears that trickle down his cheeks.

No, he isn't okay. And no, he can't be.

 **(…)**

Back inside the hospital room, Cora experiences a heartbreak of her own. Different from her alleged husband's, if his face as the events had unfolded and before he'd walked out of her hospital room was any indication. It is quite different, she'd say, but her heart break is true, regardless, and she barely suppresses the tears in her eyes because no, _no_ , no matter how frustrated she feels, tears are no solution.

It won't help to cry.

"I'm sorry baby," Martha Levinson whispers against her daughter's temple as Cora remains in her embrace. Cora is trembling, yet her stance is rigid and tensed, as she suppresses the tears and the rage swirling inside her.

But the endearment that falls from her mother's lips brings back memories of the years passed, and the damn breaks, Cora lets out a sob and her tears fall down finally, unchecked and in full force. She feels her mother's hand travel up and down her back, trying to soothe her, making her feel as though she were a child, making her wish she was one, and god, if there is ever a time that she feels her mother t he most, it is now. Right in this moment when she is confused and lost and six years, _six long years_ , of her life (in which she had apparently fallen in love and had gotten married) had been so suddenly and so unjustly erased from her memories. They are lost to her now.

She tries so hard to remember, tries to dig around the crevices of her minds for memories that she doesn't know she even had, for the life she doesn't even remember living, for any recollection of the man whose face has crumpled in pain when she'd delivered the blow and told him she doesn't even know him when she is supposed to be married to him. But she comes up nil, comes up with nothing but a headache, she really can't remember, and it's as if there is a wall blocking her memories and she cannot go around it.

"It's going to be fine, Cor," her mother says, but Cora doubts it.

It really doesn't feel like it's going to be fine.

 **(…)**

He is not okay. And hell, this is hell.

Robert doesn't know what to do. As much as he wants to hold Cora, he can't really go back to her room and face her, not like this. Not when she can't remember him and he is grieving, grieving the life he used to have that he is not even sure he can get back to.

And sure, he feels like he is dramatizing everything right this moment, but the hopelessness that has settled in his chest is hard to drive away. The events of the night has completely turned his life around.

Rosamund tags along with him when he goes back to the home he shares with Cora in Holland Park. She'd been the one to choose to live there, saying it's close to everything, that she can easily to convent garden and to her office complex, and he to his, and he realizes how everything has always been about her, and she doesn't even know, doesn't even remember that.

The night is chilly, and he pulls on his coat tighter around his body as he walks from his driveway to the door. He can almost feel Rosamund's irritation building, because he isn't like this, never the one to wallow in self pity, but that is exactly what he wants to do. He wants to snap at her, and does, tells her to go away and then turns on his heels. He knows she's only looking out for him as a sister might, only wants to make sure he's alright and that he won't do anything rascal or foolish, but he honestly just wants to be alone right now. He can't stand the company, doesn't want it…wants to just drown himself in alcohol until his heart is numb and the pain is dull.

He walks inside the house, failing to switch the lights as he goes, but Rosamund does that for him.

"Robert, I know she doesn't remember you, but you can't just give up hope," she says as they enter the house, flipping switch as they go. But the house is huge and cold, and the empty silence echoes off the halls loudly, louder and louder, making him hurt more.

God, it fucking hurts.

He clenches his fist at his sides (and god does it hurt to do that, but he doesn't bother with pain), and only goes straight to the kitchen, to the pantry where the liquor cabinet is, his eyes scaling for the strongest drink they have there. He reaches for it, pours himself a glass and downs it in one gulp, ignores the pointed sound _and_ look that Rosamund throws at him.

"Easy for you to say," he finally snipes at her, his patience all worn out. He doesn't remember asking for her company so she can bloody well sod off. He only wants whisky…or anything that's strong enough to knock him out. And solitude…he wants solitude so he can bask in his pain uninterrupted. "I don't see your husband losing his memories, do you?"

Rosamund sighs and throws him a reproachful look, one that she takes back as quickly as it comes, settling in compassion…or is that pity? She reaches out to place her hand on his wrist when he lifts his third glass of hard liquor in less than five minutes.

"This," she says and she takes the glass from him and settles it down on the surface, "won't solve anything."

He scoffs, snatching it back and gulping down the content before Rosamund could take it back. "Neither does crying or praying or even punching walls," he retorts. He pours another glass full. "This at least numbs the pain enough till I black out."

"Robert," Rosamund begins and the look that she gives him is the look he never _ever_ wants directed to him. He doesn't want or need pity.

"What would you have me do Ros?" he asks as his hand, already balled into fists, clench tighter, while the other grips the glass harder. "She doesn't remember me. She doesn't know getting to know me, or falling in love with me, she doesn't remember _being_ in love with me. How am I supposed to…what am I supposed to do?" He feels desperate, feels like the world is closing in around him, because he truly doesn't know what to do.

"She fell in love with you once," Rosamund reminds him and though the words are a balm to his aching heart, it still hurts because she is his wife, and they were once in love, and he still is, and she is supposed to still be, too. It aches deeply somewhere in his chest, he just doesn't know what to do. "You can make her fall in love with you again."

But what if he can't?

He offers her no reply, only shakes his head and asks his sister to please leave, he won't do anything crazy, but he needs to be alone. He needs to be alone with the bottle of liquor. Rosamund eyes him doubtfully, but in the end she agrees, telling him to call for anything. He agrees. But truly, he doesn't know what else to do and to be quite honest, he's too tired to think of it now.

Maybe, tomorrow would bring in a better news, though he highly doubts it. Still, he supposes, one more night can't hurt.

 **(*)**

Everything hurts. Everything hurts and he feels like dying. The pain creeps up onto his veins, fraying around the edges of his heart and threatening to take the little organ at the seams until explodes from too much pain, too much hurting. He's never believed that heartbreaks can be felt physically, but that theory has evidence now as he feels his heart clench and unclench inside his chest from the thoughts that gnaw at his brain, eating him alive.

He tortures himself with the images of his wife moving on from him and completely refusing to remember the live she used to have, content to lead a new one that does not include him…a future that she won't share with him.

The thought brings tears in his eyes anew and he swirls the amber liquid around his glass with a renewed ache in his chest. He doesn't even know how many glasses he's downed, or how many bottles he's gone through…all he knows that he isn't done until he is incoherent and unaware, passed out drunk without a single thought of tonight's events. It almost makes him wish that he's the one with amnesia, after that.

God, the thought of living a life without her in it is suffocating, is grey and dull, and unimaginable.

He imagines it would be like living in a world with no sound and no music, no good things, and only a blur of images as he passes life by. He imagines it would be dull and wrong, it's like having love unjustly ripped out of the world and it's chaotic and unsatisfying.

It's like living in a world where everyone else sees the vibrancy of colors, the fiery red and the icy blue, the lush green and the cheerful yellow, while he only sees grey and black and shades of white. It would be like having everyone else see the sun and he is thrust in the constant darkness.

It's like not having anything, because she is his everything.

 **…**

Cora sleeps through the night in her mother's arms, though her sleep is nothing but restless. She tosses and turns in bed, trying to go around the blockages in her brain and remember what memory she'd lost (it is a lot, she thinks, to lose six years worth of memories, and it hurts her to think that there had obviously been so many things that have happened, so many beautiful things, but she cannot remember them). She doesn't remember falling in love with the man that her mother said she, herself, had thought so great.

Her sleep is not plagued with the dreams she'd been expecting to have, but still, she doesn't sleep well, can't sleep well. And it's really late when she finally drifts off to sleep, her mind finally shutting down.

Still, she doesn't rest. She can't rest.

 **(…)**

Pounding.

There is a loud thumping in his head, like a marching band has taken residence in his head, like there is a hammering and nailing happening in his brain. And pissed, he feels pissed, hammered, his head feels heavy and he feels like everything in his stomach (his stomach included)is going to go up and out of his mouth.

He tries to acclimatize with his surrounding, tries to remember where he's ended up last night, if he'd even made it to the bedroom at all. He tries to remember what exactly had gone on last night, but last he remembers doing is going through bottles and bottles of scotch, without paying heed to how many he's downed already.

He sighs.

He rolls over on his side, tries to reach anything that he could brace himself on to, but he is met with empty space. It isn't the soft Egyptian cotton of their bed, but the Persian rug of the living room, he's sure of it, and he tries to open his eyes, tries to be awake enough to…well, do things other than be miserable and hangover, he supposes.

Slowly, he blinks, once, twice, until his eyes open and the sunlight streaming through the windows (he's forgotten to draw them close the night before and now he pays the consequences of it), the bright light filtering through his vision, only adding up to the headache that has already crept through the edges of his mind. He feels nauseated, and he groans, trying to reign in the bile that's risen up to his throat.

He moves his outstretched hand, his shoulder blades already protesting (god, it's not like he doesn't already feel so pathetic), and hits the table. He groans in pain, taking his hand back and nursing it against his chest blearily.

What a fucked up start to his day, already. He supposes it's safe to say that he isn't looking forward to the hours that would follow.

Grunting once more, he tries to push himself off of the carpet. He's not really keen on going anywhere with this monstrous headache, but he's decided that if he wants to win his wife back, make her remember and make her fall in love with him once more, then he's going to work for it, it won't happen overnight, but it won't happen at all if he wallows in self pity and do nothing.

Rosamund is right: he's done it once, he can do it again.

With that thought in mind, he makes his way to the bedroom and takes a quick shower, just enough to make him feel human again, decent enough to show himself to his wife—decent enough that she might find him appealing, anyway.

 **(*)**

The drive to the hospital is uneventful, the traffic on a Saturday morning not much of a problem (it is, of course it is, traffic in London is _always_ a problem to him, but it's a Saturday and this has become the norm, and it really should not faze him anymore). The sun is out, and it's a wonderful chilly day that he decides to put the top down of his Bentley, thinking that it might help his hangover. He's feeling better now, after two _Advils_ and two cups of coffee (something that his wife has influenced him on, he's always liked coffee, granted, but he's become addicted since being with Cora—she's crazy about those stuff), and the chilly air sweeping his hair back helps as well.

He thinks of the things he can say to her when he gets there, thinks of the promises he can make: that he's staying beside her through this, that he's willing to wait, that they can find a way for her to remember, and that even if she doesn't, can't remember, then they can always make new memories.

In the end, all he wants to say is that he loves her, and that her loss of memory won't make him stop loving her.

For the first time since last night, he smiles, his heart feels light with the thought…with the hope that things would get better even when it doesn't feel so right at the moment.

He slows down when the hospital building comes to view, and he finds a space for parking. He makes his way inside, a bit of pep now present in his step. It's a brilliant morning after all, and maybe holding on to hope that things would get better will help.

Don't they say that positive outlooks also have positive outcomes?

He makes his way to the room, finding Martha just about to leave to get some coffee. He gives her a smile as he reaches out to squeeze his arm, there are no words spoken between them, they already understand, and she nods at him once, letting him know that he isn't alone in this. He thanks his mother in law, and tells her to go ahead, he'd sit with Cora.

She is still asleep, he finds, when he comes in. Her face contorted in her sleep, her lips pursed, but her breathing is even and calmed. He sits down on her bedside, taking her hand in his and rubbing the soft skin of her palm.

She is beautiful, extremely so, and it's the first thought he's had the first time he'd seen her before. Her blue eyes are really the window to her soul, and she is never scared to show her emotions, never afraid to wear her heart on her sleeves—she doesn't think that it's weak to do that (Mama says it's because she is American, but Robert says that it's because she is Cora, and that's just who she is, what makes her beautiful in his eyes).

He loves her, loves her so that it almost hurts, and he cannot wait to get back to the way they were before, with their memories between them (and he is fully aware that she might not regain her memories, but still he holds out hope, and even if she doesn't well, there are enough years to make new ones).

He pulls his hand back when he notices her start to stir, his eyes training only on her waking form. Her longs lashes start to flutter, her eyes blinking, and then she's awake, her eyes opening, the vibrant blue finally making their appearance.

She is quiet as a mouse, only groans from what he imagines is pain, before she turns her head side to side. She seems to be trying to remember where she is, and he waits her out, gives her a moment to settle before he would speak. He doesn't want to startle her.

But then, her eyes find him, and they grow big, rounding like saucers. A gasp comes out from her lips and she scoots back as though thoroughly surprised by his presence. He understands, the way he's left last night leaves a lot of doubt over his return, but still, he tries to calm her.

"Cora," he begins, his voice soft and soothing. He looks at her straight in the eyes however, even when his heart breaks in so many pieces at the sight of his wife seemingly trying to get as far away from his as possible.

There are so many ways in which this scenario can turn to, so many ways in which this could unfold, and he anticipates every single one of them, or so he thinks. But he doesn't anticipate what happens next, it doesn't even hit him fully until her words ring in his ears, echoing again and again.

"Who are you?" is all she says, and it is enough, enough to break him apart once more.

Three simple words, and his heart shatters once more.

Three simple words and all the hope he's gathered over the last few hours is snuffed out and extinguished.

And he thinks that no, no, what the hell is happening?

* * *

 **A/N:** I will explain Cora's condition as thoroughly as I can in the next chapter, I promise. So please, nobody hate me. I love Cobert, I swear I do. Thanks for reading. Prepare for the next chapter? Let me hear your thoughts! (Good, bad, meh, I'd like to know!)


	3. 3- Bleeding till I can't breathe

**Hi! So I apparently got my muse back with this one and I'm just rolling with it as much as I can. Here's chapter 3! Many thanks to everyone who has faved, followed and reviewed!**

 **As usual, thanks to the beautiful Emma for all her patience. This is for my friend Hershey, hello hihi :)**

 **Unbeta-ed forever, as usual, so all mistakes are mine. (Including, possibly Robert's name because I literally have 0 time to research)**

* * *

 ** _Chapter Three_**

 _Bleeding till I can't breathe_

Fate is a cruel bitch.

Robert tries to reign in the fury he feels inside as he presses the button on the intercom and asks for a nurse. His wife is looking back at him fearfully, and it breaks his heart, but he can't say anything, do anything, can't very well just drop the bomb once more that they are married. He _did_ learn things from last night.

The nurse rushes in, asks what is wrong, and he is all too willing to ask the very same question back at the nurse, only, Cora has spoken, asking once more who they are and where she is, and what on earth is going on. The nurse seems to be taken by surprise, but still springs into action, trying to calm Cora down, answering her questions as best as she can, while having called for the doctor. Robert can only stand there and watch, his brain not catching up quite yet to the events unfolding in front of him, all he knows is that right now, she can't remember anything, the events of last night seem to have been erased from her memory.

God, is this is a nightmare? Because if this is, then he needs waking up so badly.

The door opens and the doctor whooshes in, looking addled and confused. Martha is hot on the doctor's heels, and she looks up to Robert in question, unaware of what is going on, but Robert doesn't have a clue either and he looks back at his mother in law in bewilderment and desperation, shrugging as it is the only thing that he can even do at the moment. The doctor speaks to his wife asking questions, but it all comes a slight buzzing sound, the moment becoming a blur as tears prickle his eyes and thoughts swarm in his head, both threatening to overflow.

It takes a while before Cora calms down, mostly due to Martha's comforting presence. She has been crying since the doctor's told her that she is in the hospital, having been under a coma for a few weeks after a car crash. He tells her of her condition, of how she lost her memories and suffering of amnesia. Cora looks terrified, and is only anchored by her mother's arms around her.

Cora then turns to his general direction, her gaze clearly questioning who she is, but he can't speak, can't tell her who he is exactly, out of fear of driving her away, and so he remains quiet, staring back at her in equal intensity, his feet rooted to the ground.

It is her mother who says who he is precisely, in the gentlest tone he's ever heard his mother in law use (it's surprising given how loud Martha could be), but it does nothing to appease the lost looking woman in bed, who is his wife, only she doesn't know that, can't seem to grasp the fact.

"His name is Robert Crawley," Martha says slowly, as if handling a grenade, and she might as well be, to be honest. "He is…well, he's your husband."

This brings fresh tears to her eyes, and it breaks Robert's heart and soul so bad to see her looking at him like she can't believe any of this, she looks so hurt, looks so lost that all he wants to do is haul her into his arms and kiss her pain away, but he doesn't do that, knowing that she isn't going to be very receptive of it.

Robert feels a sickening sense of déjà vu, and wishes for all that he is worth that he is still just asleep in their house, sprawled on the floor, and will awaken to a wicked hangover in a while.

 **…**

Cora feels like a mess. Her emotions are swirling inside her, too many and too much of them, and she cannot possibly name them all, much less do anything about them at this point. She watches the doctor intently as he explains what's happened to her, it's a lot to take in, it's overwhelming, and she feels the tears running down her cheeks, her mother's arms around her the only thing that even comforts her at this point.

Her doctor assures her that other than her apparent condition, she is mostly fine, the wound in her head having healed nicely and all of her other injuries having been healed or in the process of being healed too. It's a relief, but she's not all that relieved at the moment.

From her peripheral vision she can see the man, the man who claims to be her husband, and it's strange, unsettling to know that this is the man she's promised to live the rest of her life with yet she doesn't remember him, doesn't remember the life she is supposed to have lived with him. Her stomach lurches at the thought, and she feels like throwing up, feels like throwing things.

The doctor excuses himself, asks the man—her supposed husband, she corrects herself—to come with him. She knows they are going to talk about her and her condition and it is a bit disconcerting that this man that she doesn't even know, doesn't remember knowing, is handling all of these things.

"Are you alright my darling?" her mother asks her as her arms tighten around her form.

There is very little to say to that, this curveball they have been just thrown making sure of that, and so Cora only shakes her head, because no, no she can't be okay.

 **…**

"What the bloody hell is wrong?" Robert asks angrily, as he and the doctor steps out of Cora's room. A rational part of Robert knows that he has no right to be angry at the doctor at all, it isn't his fault, but frustration and desperation run high when faced with an event such as this and it's very hard to maintain rationality and reason. "Why does she seem to have forgotten what happened last night?"

The doctor sighs sadly, looks at Robert in practiced sympathy and understanding, clearly this is _not_ his first rodeo, and then he shakes his head. "Your wife is suffering from amnesia," he says, and yes, they have established that, so Robert nods, waiting for the doctor to continue. "And I've never seen a case like hers before, certainly, there is only one man in history who has had the same thing happen to him, but it is rather clear that your wife is suffering from both retrograde and anterograde kinds of amnesia."

Robert looks up at the doctor, confused, he's never the one to try and understand medical things, always have let Cora explain these things to him, and it only adds to his frustration. "English, please, Doctor," he snaps at the man before him.

The doctor breathes in deeply. "It means that while your wife suffers from retrograde amnesia, that is, she has forgotten a portion of her memories, from what we see a good six years of her life, she is also suffering from anterograde amnesia, and that means that she is unable to make new ones."

How is this even possible? Did the fates really hate them so much? Did he and Cora piss off some god in another life?

What is left for them to do now?

Will she ever be okay?

Robert seems to have a billion questions running in his head, but none of them slip out of his mouth. He looks at the doctor hopelessly.

"A part of her brain, which is responsible for her storing her memories is malfunctioning at the moment damaged by the blow she's received in her head and it can't do its job and keep her memories," the doctor explains, but it does very little to enlighten Robert. He can feel the fear creeping in his heart and his whole being. "From what I see, she has twenty-four hours before she loses her memories again and she reverts back to not knowing the past six years and the day preceding. It's possible that she can both regain her past memories and make new ones after a bit of therapy. But for right now, the best you can do for her is help he through this, help her remember what she's lost, and help her remember the ones she will regain. It's going to be a long road to recovery, so you are all going to have to be patient," the doctor continues.

"Do we—how do we go about this?" Robert asks the doctor.

"As I said, therapy is her best option, and you'll have to tell her stories, tell her of the life she's lost, be patient with her, and never force her to remember. This might cause her brain to completely shut down and refuse to remember. Just gradually ease her in to the life she's lived," the doctor suggests.

Robert nods his head. "I understand doctor," Robert says, and he does, but he can't say he's alright with all of it. It stings like a bitch.

"Mr. Crawley, I have been a doctor for many years and I have seen many cases such as this," the doctor says, "I can't say I've seen many with this particular case, but…it all comes down to one thing: patience. Right now, she is vulnerable and lost and scared, and she wants to remember, but her body is recovering and she can't just yet. If she feels your frustration, she'll be frustrated too. You're going to have be patient with her."

Robert nods. That he can do. He can and will do anything for his wife.

"Yes, doctor, thank you," Robert says, nodding before shaking the doctor's hand and thanking him before he takes his leave.

 **(*)**

Robert is thirty-two years old, not even in his forties, yet he feels like he is eighty, feels like the world has just dumped an excruciatingly heavy weight upon his shoulders.

He sits in the hospital cafeteria, head on his hands, trying to prevent his tears from flowing. His coffee sits in front of him on the table, cold and untouched—he thinks he needs something much, _much_ stronger than caffeine.

He can't face her right now, can't face his wife. All of the hopes he had this morning had just been dashed out of him.

He hates this, hates this so much, hates knowing that the last thing she would want is to be anywhere near him when all he wants is to hold her.

He feels a palm landing on his shoulder, and he jumps, startled. He looks up and finds his mother in law looking at him with sympathetic eyes. She takes a seat across him, her hand catching his. She squeezes once, twice.

"How are you holding up?" she asks softly. She looks tired, looks as miserable, it's as hard for her as it is for him, but at least Cora _does_ remember her.

"Barely," he admits. "I feel like I'm drowning. I don't know what to do." He looks at his mother in law and sees the hopelessness reflected in her eyes. They both hate seeing Cora like this. "How is she?"

"She's fallen asleep," Martha says, sighing. "Finally got her to calm down, though she's been adamant that I don't leave her side, the poor thing's so shaken."

Robert doesn't doubt that at all.

"She'll remember you Robert," Martha says, but Robert shakes his head, he cannot possibly know that. "She'll fall in love with you once again."

It does not seem possible now.

"She has two kinds of amnesia," Robert tells his mother in law with a shake of his head. "One where she can't remember the past six years, and another where she can't make new memories for God knows how long."

Martha gasps, her hand flying up to her mouth. "Is there anything we can do?" she asks. She looks frantic and scared, and Robert wants to comfort her, tell her that it's going to be okay, but he's not even sure he believes that himself.

Is there? Robert doesn't know.

"Be patient with her, that's what the doctor says," Robert answers, watching as Martha nods. Of course. "And therapy, the doctor she needs therapy."

"Of course," Martha says, nodding. "She needs us now more than ever."

Martha's words shoot daggers to Robert's heart and he feels like weeping, feels like laughing, feels like dying. "She needs _you_ , I don't think she's going to be all okay with me," he says, and it honestly what he feels.

Martha slaps his wrist and looks at him sternly. "Listen to me Robert James Crawley," Martha orders, looking at him with a steely gaze. "I will ask you this question once and once only: Do you love my daughter, the woman you've taken as your wife?"

Robert looks back at Martha, offended that she's even had to ask. "Of course I do," he exclaims defensively. There is nothing he is more sure of in his life than his love for Cora. She is still and will always be the best thing that's ever happened to him. "I love her more than life. She's everything I have, Martha."

"Then I forbid you to give up on her. If you love her as much as you say you do, as much as I believe you do, then I am not letting you wallow in your own sorrows and give up on her," Martha tells him severely. Robert looks at her, surprised, but knowing she is right. "She loves you, Robert. She might not remember that and it might be a struggle getting her to, but she does. I have never seen two people more in love that you two seem to be. You've survived your mother and all her stupid interventions before, you are going to survive this too."

"How do you even know that?" Robert asks desperately.

"Because Robert, her mind might forget, but her heart remembers, I know it," Martha says, her eyes softening and so does her voice. "She fell in love with you before, she is going to again. When two people are made for each other, they always find their way to each other. You have to believe that." Martha pats Robert's hand and gives him a soft, encouraging smile.

Robert sighs, now he only needs to pave her way back to him, because he's already waiting for her on the other side.

 **…**

He watches her a lot. She can feel his eyes on her on odd times, feels him looking at her. It's been five days since she'd been told she's awoken from her coma, and every day, her mother would tell her the same thing: She's in England, she's married to the man whose name is Robert, and she's suffering from amnesia, which is why she can't remember anything from the past six years and every day, she needs to be reminded of these things, because her brain can't store new memories.

At first, upon knowing this, she'd cried so hard, that she'd had to be sedated (that's what mother's said, anyway, she can't really remember and that had gone on for the first three days). Every morning, mother would give her a rundown of her condition, and she feels bile rise up her throat and panic run through her veins. Lately, she's been doing better, she'd panicked, but she hasn't hyperventilated, not yesterday and not today and she thinks that it's a positive sign.

She's a long way to recovery but she is on her way there.

Every day, for the past five days, the same man who her mother claims to be her husband, Robert, would visit her and sit with her. He would ask her about her day, and she'd answer the same: _good_ , she'd say, and he'd nod, and say he's pleased that it is. She feels hesitant to talk to him, but she does feel his eyes on her, and she does think (today she does, she doesn't quite know if she had yesterday or the day before that) that he has a beautiful smile. She can see the appeal, understand on some level—on a very physical level—why she'd married this man.

The doctor comes in her room with a smile, asks her how she is, and checks her vitals. She remains silent, and so does her husband and her mother, and they await what the doctor has to say. These days, it feels like silence is their constant companion, not that she can verify that.

"Well, Mrs. Crawley," the doctor begins, smiling at her warmly, and it still feels odd to be called that, not when she doesn't remember being that, "Your vitals seem fine, you're all healed from your physical injuries, so you are free to go by tomorrow."

Cora smiles weakly at the doctor as her mother beams at her, her _husband_ looks on at her with a warm smile as well. She feels panic rising, feels like she isn't sure what to do. Once she's out of the hospital, what then?

The doctor says he'll work on her release papers before taking his exit, her mother following him out for some more questions. That leaves her and her husband, and she fiddles with her thumb, unsure of what to say.

"Are you excited?" he asks her kindly. He reaches out to touch her but he pulls back at the last second, placing his hand on his lap and she's not sure if she's relieved or if she's disappointed.

She shrugs, sighing. "I don't know," she admits. "On the one hand I'm ready to leave this room, but on the other…" she trails off, not knowing how to put to words her thoughts.

"On the other?" he questions, prodding her gently, waiting her out.

"On the other, I'm not sure how to be…" she pauses, biting her lip and then shaking her head. "I'm not sure how to be Cora Crawley when I get out of here."

Robert shakes his head and she sees him clench his hand into fists as if trying so hard not to touch her. Maybe he is. "You don't have to be you know," he says softly, and she looks at him, confused. "You don't have to be anyone else but yourself. Just be Cora, the Cora you know. I'm certain that she's just as lovely."

He looks at her intensely, his gaze boring holes into her, and she looks up at him in the same magnitude even as she feels herself melting at his words. She feels for him, feels so much, this can't be easy for him…but she can't pretend to be something she doesn't know how to be…can't really do any pretending in her condition.

"I won't love you any less," he whispers, but she hears it, and it paralyzes her, sends her heart racing while breaking it simultaneously.

How she wishes she knows how to love him the way she used to, the way he obviously does her.

 **…**

Robert feels like a colossal idiot as the words slip his mouth long before he can give it any thought and his wife stares at him as though he's a kicked puppy (worry not, he feels like one). He should _not_ have said that.

"I'm sorry," he stumbles over an apology as he shakes his head and looks away from her. She isn't alright enough for this.

God, he is almost thankful she won't remember this tomorrow.

"Don't be," she tells him, reaching out to touch his hand.

It feels as though there is an electricity running through them, and it jolts him, he feels like it's been too long since she's touched him like this, touched him at all. It had been an awkward few days between them.

"Don't be sorry for loving… _her_ ," she says, and it destroys him to know that she thinks that the Cora she knows now and the Cora he knows are different entities when to him…it's always going to be Cora, just Cora. It doesn't matter which Cora, he'll love her anyway.

He doesn't know what to say to that, and he doesn't have to say anything he finds, as the door opens and Martha walks in, eyeing them curiously, her eyes falling over to their joined hands, and Cora blushes, pulling her hand away as if burned. Well, it's been good while it lasted.

"I've spoken to the doctor," Martha says as she takes the seat beside Robert, pointedly ignoring the elephant in the room. "You're to be discharged tomorrow but he wants you back in a week or so to check on your progress, also to start your therapy."

Cora nods. "Alright," she says. "Where are you staying?"

Martha looks at her questioningly. "The Ritz, why?" she asks.

"Well, I imagine that's where I'm supposed to stay as well?" Cora asks, seemingly confused to why there is even a discussion to this.

"No, wait—," Martha begins, but Robert cuts her off.

"I think it would be more comfortable if you stayed in our house Cora," Robert says, and he hates that he sound like he's almost pleading, but that he does.

"I wouldn't want to impose," Cora protests, shaking her head.

"It's your home too," Robert explains, "It can never be an imposition."

Cora opens her mouth, looking just about ready to protest, when Martha intervenes. "It's better if you ease into your old life, be surrounded by the things you've lost memory of," Martha explains. "I'll even stay there if it makes you feel any better." She shoots Robert an apologetic look, one that Robert shakes off because he'd be willing to just about anything to make Cora comfortable.

Cora visibly relaxes, though looks a bit apprehensive still. "As long as it's not an imposition," she says.

Robert nods, holds out his right hand. "I promise," he says, smiling (pleased at the prospect that she'll be there with him, in the same house, even if she doesn't still quite remember).

Cora nods and smiles back.

 **(*)**

The next day starts bright and early and Robert finds himself excited for today. He is going to be bringing his wife home, something he's been so excited about long before she'd even woken up from coma. He thinks that this would do well for him, and for her—to be back to a place where they had both built a life together. It might help her recover her missing memories.

He drives to the hospital with a smile, unable to hide his excitement and happiness. Cora greets her sullenly when he arrives, and it's not a shock, it takes a few hours for her to get used to him. She isn't exactly thrilled upon finding out the things she knows now so early in the morning, but she adjusts, and it's almost like a muscle memory for her to ease up around him; like her mind doesn't remember but the rest of her does.

"Good morning, Cora," he says as he picks her bag up off the floor. She looks at him oddly and mutters a _morning_ , before he turns to Martha and greets her the same, kissing her on the cheek.

"She hasn't had her morning cup," Martha divulges with a laugh and Robert nods, chuckling, because he does know his wife all too well.

"Let's get her some on the way," Robert says. He turns to his wife and asks, "Would you be opposed to getting some real breakfast on the way home, love?"

Cora's surprise is clear on her face but she nods, tells him that it's okay with her, before she sticks to her mother's side and clings to her. Robert tries not to take it to heart. Cora's really just still adjusting to the idea that she has a husband she doesn't know and that she's been told this morning after morning, daily, everyday, and she just can't remember.

Martha has already signed the discharge papers, so Robert ushers both Martha and Cora to his car. His heart breaks a little when Cora opts to sit on the back, letting her mother have the front seat, but he says nothing, lets her have whatever she is comfortable with.

"Where are we going?" Martha asks when he turns right instead of left, where they actually reside.

"Just a quaint bed and breakfast that serves the best coffee," Robert says with a smile. "You're going to love it there."

Both Martha and Cora nod, and the rest of the drive is spent in silence.

He slows his car to a stop when the little bed and breakfast comes to view. It's a quaint little place, that is owned and run by a married couple. It is simple structure, the breakfast or diner being out in the front, and the inn at the back. The white picket fence adds a very American touch.

They walk into the breakfast and Robert leads them to the back corner where they all take their seats, Cora seated beside her mother with Robert sitting across her. He helps them choose their breakfast, instinctively ordering for Cora, knowing exactly what she likes.

"This is beautiful," Cora says when they've placed their order. He watches her look around, taking the small place in with wonder. "How did you find it?"

He looks at her with a smile. "It's actually you, sweetheart, who found it," he tells her. "You dragged me here and it became our Sunday morning ritual."

Cora blushes and smiles despite herself. They have had a great life, she and him, and he can't wait to get it back, but wait he must and so he does. He smiles back at her.

Their morning goes on smoothly after that.

 **(*)**

The day passes by in a blur, between settling Cora into her old life and getting Martha settled in as well, the day passed by rather quickly. Before he knows it, they are eating their dinner, courtesy of the home chef, of course, and then moving to the living room to pass time.

Robert, Cora and Martha all settle in the living room and played a movie, watching it silently, and letting their tired bodies calm down after a day of activities. It isn't until past ten that Martha bids her daughter and son in law goodnight, saying that she doesn't feel as young as she used to, though she doesn't look it. This earns her a chuckle from her daughter and a smile from Robert. Before Martha goes up however, she pulls Robert aside.

"She's warming up to you," Martha tells him as she holds him comfortingly. "That's good."

Robert nods. "She won't remember it tomorrow," he says defeated as the reality looms over him and his thoughts.

"Don't be too negative," Martha chastises before kissing him on the cheek and bidding him goodnight.

When Martha's disappeared to her room, Cora also stands up and excuses herself.

"It's been a long day," Cora tells him, standing up to stretch and yawn. "I'm going to turn myself in."

Robert nods and follows her up to the bedroom. Already in her nightclothes, she settles in bed and he feels her eyes on him as he moves around the room to gather his clothes. He is itching to get to bed and hold her again. He hurries along and makes it out of the bathroom in record time. He doesn't notice Cora looking at him as he pulls the covers back until she's clearing her throat.

"What are you doing?" she asks, looking at him as though he's being unreasonable.

"Getting to bed," he answers with a shrug.

"You can't sleep here," she tells him in a definite voice and it has him looking at her in question and surprise (and hurt too, he knows, as he feels his heart clench and unclench in his chest).

"This is my bedroom too?" he asks like he's daft.

"Show me the guest bedroom then," she says, climbing out of bed and he notices how instinctively, she chooses _her_ side even if she doesn't remember. Not that it matters right now.

"Why would you want that?" he asks, confused. Wouldn't she be more comfortable in her own bed?

She looks at him as if he's daft or lost his marbles completely and in a way he does feel like it. "Because I'm not sleeping here with you," she explains in a flat voice. "We might be married but I don't know you."

Her words, so carelessly thrown his way, tear his heart apart in a way that she cannot know, in a way that she does not know. He hangs his head in shame, because he should have known and he shakes his head. He takes his pillow from the bed and looks at her even when his heart aches, breaks.

"It's okay," he says softly, the hurt seeping through his voice, and he averts his eyes from her, the pain is too much. "You'll be more comfortable here. Goodnight," he bids and then he's out the door, leaving her inside and closing it with a dull thud.

He makes his way to the guest bedroom and settles himself in, trying to make himself comfortable knowing he can't, not when his heart is breaking, bleeding, the pain suffocating him until he can no longer breathe.

* * *

 **A/N: *runs and hides* Please no one throw things at me.**


	4. 4- I'll hold yesterday in my heart

_The speed and frequency in which I update this fic astounds me. But I genuinely do love this story. It's something I've worked on for months, developed the idea so intensively to the point of madness. Ask Emma. She's the poor soul who gets the brunt of all my frustrations. Poor girl. So my thanks are to her, for her unending patience and support. And for her friendship. Love you lots, trutsie roll._

 _This is quite long, and the beginning of this leaves a lot to be desired i think but you judge. I've been writing that part forever, I need to just get it out or I will delete it and start again which will take 5 years._

 _As usual, un-beta-ed forever, mistakes are mine and I own no one and nothing but the plot._

 **Enjoy sailors!**

* * *

Cora stirs to the sound of the rainfall pattering against the roof, hitting the smooth planes of the windows as the wind whips and whooshes around, making a soft whistling sound. She wakes, barely regaining consciousness, instinctively pulling the duvet higher up her neck and wrapping it tighter around her body. She keeps her eyes closed, unwilling to face the day just yet, the warm and soft covers beckoning her (the Egyptian cotton slides silkily against her skin, and it feels nice, cosy), and the air is chilly enough at it has her burrowing deeper for warmth.

She lounges in bed for a few more minutes (a half hour, really, but who's counting?), before she rolls over her bed and opens her eyes. What greets her however, has her closing her eyes again, her heart thundering against her chest out of fear, bewilderment, and is that panic? Oh, yes, yes it _is._

She takes a deep, calming breath, her hand falling flat across her chest as she opens her eyes slowly. Everything has remained the same: the four poster bed, the dresser across t, the cream walls and the cherry wood vanity table housing a variety of products, it's all the same.

But this is _not_ her bedroom. In fact, she does not quite remember where she is exactly, not quite sure how the hell she got here either.

The panic is unbidden now, rising up from the pit of her stomach up her throat. Her heart is racing, thumping in a thunderous pace. She doesn't know what to do: clearly she knows this place, has lived here for quite a while if she is wearing her nightgown (it could very well be another person's, but she tries not to think of that), and her picture sits on the side table on her left, so she supposes she lived her, _lives_ here, only she doesn't know how or when or why that's happened. She doesn't quite remember.

She tries to reign in the overflowing nerves and climbs out of bed gingerly. She looks around, tries to jog any memory, but no such luck, so she fetches the robe that is draped at the back of the vanity chair and dons it on, wrapping it securely around her waist. Her footfalls make no noise against the soft carpet as she pads across the threshold and makes her way out of the bedroom. She gives it one last look before she slips out to the hall and closes the door behind her.

The halls are spacious and quiet, it is long and daunting as she figures out which way to go. She feels so much like Alice, trying to figure out which door to open, which one would lead to an answer, and which one would lead to another maze or the mad hatter. She isn't quite sure, can't quite guess, there are too many doors left and right.

Alas, she makes it to the top of the stairs, and she decides to climb down and hope for the best carefully counting the steps in an attempt to distract herself from her panic. Her feet land on the bottom steps and she thinks that her heart has fallen along with it, the shattered pieces pooling at her feet. The said organ knocks against her chest, however, to let her know of its existence—it hasn't dropped to her stomach, she's just terrified. And numb, yes, she's numb, too.

She lets her feet lead her then, not entirely sure where she's going, but she hears activity from somewhere, so she follows her sound, swallowing back her fear and apprehension. She realizes that she's walked right into the kitchen when she spots the island counter full of breakfast food, along with the man who stands behind it, preparing what seems to be a breakfast tray. She watches as she carefully places blueberries on top of the stacks of pancakes before he reaches for a single-stemmed yellow rose, dropping it on a small vase on the far left corner of the tray.

She tries to remember who he is, racks her brain for a name to place on the face, but her mind draws a blank. She stands frozen, the dread and anxiety giving her pause and paralyzing her. She clenches her fists on her side and takes a deep breath before inching forward, her eyes trained on the man behind the corner.

Is she waking up and walking on a faceless stranger she had one-night stand with last night? Ugh, but she doesn't feel drunk, and yes, the picture on the nightstand.

"Who are you?" she asks, her voice loud and echoing off the quiet. She watches as the man jumps, clearly startled, and drops the plate he's been holding, the contents of it spilling on the floor.

 **…**

His heart jumps when he hears her voice. He hasn't even realized that she's in the same room. He'd been gripping a plate full with a high stack of blueberry pancakes (her absolute favorite). He had wanted to bring it to her bedroom, preferably after Martha had wakened and explained everything to Cora, but he'd dropped the plate out of shock and surprise, shooting that idea right to hell. Not to mention, Martha is obviously not awake yet and therefore had not been able to explain the situation to Cora.

Afraid to look at his wife in the eyes, he bends down instead and picks up the shattered pieces of the plate. He pricks himself when he picks up one jagged piece and he lets out a hiss and curse.

"Bloody fucking sodding hell," he mutters in plain annoyance as the rust-colored blood oozes out of the long, deep cut, and _fuck_ it hurts like a total bitch, so he lets out another hiss of pain, followed by a string of curses as he tries to pick out the pieces lodged on his skin.

He tries to keep his hand upright, trying in vain to keep the blood from dripping on the cream tiles. Watching for the trail of blood that would follow, he whips his head around in search for the dish towel and spots it on the counter just beside the sink. He makes a move to get it, standing gingerly and balancing himself precariously to keep the blood from further tainting the floor, but Cora beats him to it, grabbing it in her hands and making no noise or sound as she walks toward him. He is floored, his blood dripping (and surely that will make a stain later), but it matters not, not when she is grabbing his hand in her warm ones, wrapping the cloth all over his palm, applying soft, insistent pressure to stop the bleeding. He is paralyzed by their proximity, frozen in place by her warm breath hitting his skin so lightly it feels like gentle caresses of the wind on a spring day (his heart aches like the winter—so cold and so alone, and the thought of the ice thawing and the spring coming to bring relief sounds so brilliant right now). He is unable to speak, unable to register anything beyond the touch of their skins, and it hasn't been long since, he's always held her, touch her in some way when she'd been in coma, even after she'd woken, but this feels different.

This _is_ different, because she is voluntarily holding him, helping him even when she must be so confused.

He feels her pull him towards the sink, her hands still clasping his, and without a word, she turns on the tap and unwraps the dish towel from his wounded hand, pulling it under the faucet to let the water run over it. He lets out a hiss, grimacing at the initial impact of the water rushing down, hitting his tender palm, and she looks up at him, blue eyes warm and concerned.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, looking down again to tend to his wound. She turns his hand this side and that, both of them watching as the water becomes tinted with the rusty color of his blood.

The room is filled with silence—pregnant with everything left unsaid, of words unspoken and questions unasked, of memories remembered dearly, and memories faded away in her mind, of heated encounters on this very counter, of kisses and embraces, of comfort and pain, of I love you's exchanged that she doesn't even remember now.

Tears prickle his eyes and he knows that it has nothing to do with the gash on his palm.

"Where do you keep your first aid?" her voice breaks through his reverie, and he startles, shaking his head and the thought away, before looking down at her. Her eyes are still the warmest of blue, even in the almost icy shade, and he falls into her, deeper, deeply more in love.

God, he would marry her again once this storm passes, he thinks.

She is still staring at him, and so he snaps out of it, jerking his head towards his right side. "Third cupboard on the left," he says, and watches as she turns the tap off, takes her leave and walks over to the cupboards to fetch the gauze and tape, some Neosporin and something that looks like an antiseptic. He feels the loss of her hand in his keenly.

"This should sting a bit, I'm sorry," she tells him in a soft voice as she pours the antiseptic over his wound, and she's right, it does sting, fuck it hurts, but he holds his breath in until the pain passes, watching as she dabs some Neosporin around the wound before wrapping it in gauze and taping it together. "That should do it," she says with a little smile.

It is so reminiscent of the Cora she doesn't even remember being that it makes his heart clench.

"Thank you," he says, and unable to stop himself, he tilts her chin up just enough so their eyes would meet, blue against blue. He feels his heart race, she looks so beautiful, so divine, her porcelain skin almost glistening in the bright lights, her pink lips parted slightly, and her eyes are wide and rounded, so blue, so open. He couldn't help but lean in, to be honest, his body has moved on its own volition, without his permission, and before he even knows what he is doing his breath is already hitting the pale skin of her face, and she is making no move to stop him.

"There you are, I've been loo—," Robert hears his mother-in-law's shrill voice as she steps into the kitchen, the same voice that fades into an echo the moment she does.

What a picture they must have painted, Robert thinks as Cora jumps away from her like a recoiling spring, and he feels his heart drop, drop, drop lower and then shatter. His hand falls on to his side, the injured one gripping the counters. What rotten timing, he thinks.

But maybe it is for the best…he can't be kissing his wife when she barely remembers, scratch that, not barely, she doesn't _at all_ remember who he is.

"Mother," Cora exclaims, sounding so delighted, and she flees to her mother's side, taking Martha's hand in hers and bombarding her in questions that he cannot hear anymore—her words slur in his brain, merging onto one another and making an annoying buzzing sound in his ear.

He feels like the world is spinning, but that could just be him exaggerating. The world cannot be revolving so fast that he thinks it might throw him off. But _his_ world had been thrown so off balance the past few weeks that it is hard to tell what the fates and the world would or would not do.

 **…**

Cora feels dizzy.

She feels like she'd gone on a merry-go-round that went too fast and now she feels so immensely out of balance and out of sorts she isn't really sure what's going on. Her brain is mushy, and she feels shiver running down her spine, but could that just be his hands on her chin, tilting her head up?

She watches with half-hooded eyes as he leans in, his eyes on her face, lips, and it feels like a caress—but how could that be when he is just looking at her, staring at her so intently? She should push him away, should not let this happen…he is a stranger, for god's sake. What is even his name? She doesn't thinks she had even asked yet.

But his hand is warm and his breath is tickling her face, and she is looking at his parted lips and thinks that she might need them, might need them pressing against hers. Her breath comes in short now, with very little intervals in between, and she needs something…but god, this is crazy!

"There you are, I've been loo—," her mother's voice cuts right in the moment and she is pulled back down to earth. She pulls away from the man before her faster than she ever remembers pulling away from someone. She whips her head and finds her mother looking at them intently, curiously, like she's missing something, and honestly, Cora thinks that so does she.

She almost breaks to a run towards her mother's side, but the distance is short and she covers it in all of five seconds. She bombards her mother with questions: _where are they, why are they here, what the hell is going on…_ all so she could ignore that empty feeling in her stomach the moment she'd been out of _his_ proximity. She needs him close, closer, but she doesn't understand the pull, she can't place it, can't name it…all she knows is right now she is confused.

Her mother is looking at her oddly, apparently not convinced by her act, but mother pulls her into the next room, leaving the man alone in the kitchen. Cora fights back the urge to look back at him.

"What is the last thing you remember?" Martha asks suddenly when they are in what appears to be the den. Cora looks at her mother in bewilderment. "When you woke?"

Not much, if Cora is being honest with herself, so she shrugs. "I don't know, I was too preoccupied with the shock of waking up somewhere I don't know," she answers with a frown, her eyebrows furrowing.

"What year is it, Cora?" Martha asks, raising an eyebrow.

Cora looks at her mother oddly. Has mother been hitting the liquor cabinets already? "It's 2010," she says with a rise of her own eyebrow, surprised that her mother should ask, but answering the question nonetheless.

"Ah," Martha hums, closing her eyes and then opening them to look at her. Her warm brown eyes are clouded with sadness. "I'd thought given what I walked in earlier on, you'd have remembered."

"Remember what?" Cora asks, feeling the panic rising up in her again, as it had when she'd woken, only this time it comes out in spades, more intense.

"Cora, you have amnesia," Mother blurts out so suddenly (but really, there is no other way to say it than saying it as it is).

Cora feels so dizzy.

 **…**

Robert paces down the hall anxiously. Martha has warned him off seeing Cora, and he knows that that would be for the best, she's feeling emotional right now after finding out what she had, but he can't help but worry, and he feels the apprehension and dread filling him, coursing through his veins. He keeps gnawing at his bottom lip, wondering about her, and what she is doing, and how she must be feeling.

After Martha had dragged her out of the kitchen and explained things to her, Cora had sequestered herself in the bedroom, and hadn't come out since. It's lunchtime now, and Martha has offered to bring her up some lunch but she had declined, much to Robert's dismay.

"She's going to be fine, Robert," Martha says as she passes him by, tapping his shoulder affectionately. "She just needs to work it out of her system. This is a shock to her."

And he knows that, logically, he knows that—it doesn't mean that he isn't worried.

"I just want her to be okay," he admits with a shrug, as he helplessly runs his fingers through his hair.

"She will be," Martha assures her. "She's resilient. Throw her any curveball and she'll work her way through it. She just needs some time."

Robert nods, feeling despondent and worthless, but what else could he do?

He tries to busy himself with things then, moving to the library to think, drink, maybe come up with some solutions to their problem. None is helping at the moment, this is just the way nature runs, he can't rush it. Cora won't start therapy for another two weeks, and until then, all of them would just have to be patient. His eyes wander to Cora's desk, there must be something that could help in there.

He walks over and sits behind it, his gaze falling onto the picture sitting atop it. The photograph is of them, taken on their engagement party. He remembers one of their friends taking that photo, but he hadn't known then that it was being taken, so the shot looks perfectly candid. He has his arms around her, looking down at her adoringly, and she had been looking up at him, her arms wrapped around his waist. She's smiling, so beautiful and so radiant. They'd been so happy then.

Will they be happy again?

Shaking his head and opening the top draw, he snoops around for something…anything that might help. His hand falls on a black leather bound notebook and he lifts it up, gazing at the cover and finding nothing but _Cora C_. engraved on the front.

He flips open the notebook, not at all surprised to find his wife's elegant scrawl on the pages. What is surprising is what's inside…her innermost thoughts of the last few years. Wary of his wife's privacy that he might breach, he leafs through the pages, finding the end and finding that there are no more pages to be filled. She's filled it all. He reckons that whatever might be inside might help.

And suddenly, an idea sparks in his head.

Happy now that he might be able to help her even in little ways, he springs up and out of the chair and walks out of the library. He searches for Martha and tells his mother-in-law that he needs to step out a bit.

With a pep on his step, he sets on trying to win back his wife.

 **…**

Cora's eyes feel like they are grating on sandpaper. She is tired, exhausted really, and she feels the last of her tears flow from her eyes. She can't quite comprehend what is happening, can't quite understand why, but there is no sense in wallowing, and so she tells herself to get out of this sullen mood (really it's more than just a mood, it's her life, but there is no need in making herself lose her mind that way), and so she gets out of bed and walks out of the bedroom.

She finds her mother in the den, and she almost asks where her husband is (it still feels odd to know she has a husband but not remember him), but she stops herself, instead she plops down on the seat behind her mother, snuggling into her for comfort.

"You'll make it through this," Martha whispers against her temple, and Cora wishes for that so much, really, she does.

They spend the next few minutes that way, sitting together with their arms around one another, seeking solace and comfort with each other. Cora reminisces over her childhood, the many, many times that she'd spent cuddled with her mother, crying over things that don't matter now, but mother has always been her comfort, even when they don't always agree. Her mother may not always be her biggest fan (she doesn't always approve of everything Cora does), but mother will always be her biggest source of comfort, and she knows that.

"I thought I might look into some albums," Cora says, breaking through the silence. "Just check on some pictures, maybe it would jog some memory."

Martha pulls away from her only daughter a little bit, just enough to be able to look her in the eyes. "Of course, that's a wonderful idea," she agrees. "I remember you used to keep them in the library."

Cora nods and smiles, makes a move to get up. Martha does the same, but Cora waves her off. "I want to do this on my own, please," she says. Reluctantly, Martha agrees, telling her the way to the library but letting her leave on her own.

And that is how she found herself hours later: pouring over the pictures of the years she's missed. Most of them are of herself and her husband…some with a red head that she assumes is his sister, and some with other people, some with his parents, it seems.

They look so happy, she realizes. There are only a handful of pictures where she doesn't see either of them smiling, even in the obviously candid ones, but their smiles had their eyes sparkling and she can see, even through the still images how happy they must have been.

She feels tears well up her throat, to her eyes again at the thought that she can't remember that…being happy with him, can't remember him. She wipes the tears from her cheeks just as a knock on the door startles her.

She turns around to find her husband standing by the door, looking at her with concern.

"Hey," she greets softly, even when she feels apprehensive. But she's made a promise to herself that she is going to give this a try, he deserves as much.

"Hello," he greets back and, at her nod, walks towards where she is currently sitting. She has parked herself on the floor, by the hearth, dozens of album sprawled around her. "Your mother says you've come out of the bedroom."

She nods. "I'm feeling much better now," she divulges, nodding towards the albums around her. "I thought I'd give a look into the life I used to live."

Robert nods and smiles. "That's a good start," he says, taking a seat next to her. He is far enough that it's a respectable amount of distance, but she can still feel the warmth radiating off him.

"Only I probably won't even remember it tomorrow," she says bitterly, the acid spilling at every word. She hates this situation more than anyone.

He grabs her hand, an impulsive reaction no doubt, and it startles her but she doesn't say anything, instead she basks in the warmth of his touch.

"You'll remember," he says with conviction. "Just be patient and don't lose hope."

She nods and looks down at their joined hands. She looks back up at him and her heart breaks at the pain looming behind his blue orbs. "It must be so hard for you too," she says, more than asks, really, because it must be.

"Not any harder than it is for you," he tells her with a shrug. "You're the one going through the condition."

It's true, that.

"But…" and she trails off, unsure of whether or not she should say it, but he squeezes her hand, looks at her in earnest, prompting her to continue. "But you loved _her_ … _me…_ or the woman I used to be, I saw it in your eyes through the pictures, you love _her._ " She bites her lip. "What if she never comes back?"

He shakes his head and pulls his hand away to cup her cheek. "No," he says vehemently. "I love _you_ , and it doesn't matter to me which one you're going to be…the past or the future or the present you…as long as you come back to me."

His words knock her heart out of her chest, stealing away her breath. He loves her that much? She doesn't really know what to say to that.

She averts her eyes and looks at the picture before her. It's taken on their wedding day it seems, whilst they were dancing. He's looking at her and she at him, and even through a picture, Cora could feel the intensity.

"You looked so happy," she comments, pulling her gaze away from the picture. " _We_ looked so happy."

He nods, his hands had long since dropped from her face and are clutching hers again. He squeezes, once, twice. "We were," he admits. She looks up at him, surprised by the passionate way in which he says those words. "We could still be again."

But how?

She remains silent as she tries to fight back the tears. She doesn't know what to say.

"Anyway, I've gone out to give you this," he says, handing her a black leather bound notebook with her name engraved in gold on the cover. She raises her eyebrow. "This is yours. I found it in your desk." He jerks his thumb over behind him. "I didn't read through it, but I thought you might want to have a look."

She pulls her hands from his and takes the notebook from him. She leafs through the pages, finding her writing on every page. She smiles, maybe she'll learn more about the woman she'd become. "Thank you," she tells him, smiling up at him.

He nods at her and smiles back, handing her another one. "And this is for you as well," he says. She takes the notebook from him, leafing through it, surprised to find it empty. She looks at him. "It's for your new memories. I know that when you wake, you lose the ones you gained today, so I thought you could write them down, so you could just read through the next morning and it can help you be settled, remember."

Her heart fill with emotions she cannot describe and she grips the notebook tighter in her hands. She looks at him, her vision blurring as her tears flood her eyes, but he reaches out to her, and brushes the tears with the pads of his thumbs away.

He pulls her close, and she doesn't protest, cannot possibly under the circumstances, with her heart beating so hard and so loud, and every single sense she has tingling and hypersensitive. He kisses her cheek and then rests their foreheads together. For a moment, they breathe as one, two people joined by matrimony and unforgotten love, even with forgotten memories. For a moment it is blissful and right, everything feels like its fallen into place.

"I will always remind you, Cora," he says, his voice strengthened by promise and conviction, "I will always remind you of our love, until you remember, until you can no longer forget."

* * *

 **A/N: Don't know what happened to the ending. Hope you like it though. And did I mention that this is kinda angsty? No? Yeah?**

I would really love to hear your thoughts! Opinions, suggestions, ANYTHING, just to gauge if y'all interested :) or if I'm doing something wrong or hopefully right. anyhow, thanks for reading (and let's all weep now bc they aired the penultimate ep for DA-lemme go drown in my own tears).


	5. 5- Your words are like whisper

**Hello from the other side. Right. This chapter is brought to you by sweat and blood and tears of frustration. No but really, this took a while to finish. and this other thing I like to call life keeps intervening. what a bitch. anyway, here we are.**

 **Enjoy Coberts!**

 _As usual, Unbeta-ed forever and ever, ignore the mistakes. they are mine and i dont like them either, but yeah, ignore_ _them._

* * *

 ** _Chapter Five_**

 _Your words are like a whisper_

Cora readies herself to bed that night with a heavy heart. She's made a lot of progress with herself today, but it doesn't feel like it means anything, not when she'll just forget about it the next morning. She thinks of the feeling she'd had earlier this day upon finding out that she has amnesia (as if it isn't cruel enough to have one kind of amnesia, she actually has two), and really, she doesn't look forward to having go through the same process tomorrow. She wonders, with a heavy and burdened chest, if every day for the rest of her life would be like this: sleep, awaken, forget, be reminded, sleep, awake, forget. Rinse, repeat.

It is a scary thought. Something she doesn't think she can go through that for the rest of her life. And really, she doesn't think she can put her family, her mother and brother, her husband through that.

Her thoughts follow her even as she submerges herself in the bath, the warm water soothing her aching muscles. The smell of chamomile infiltrates her senses, calming, even as her thoughts run miles per minute. She takes the soap in her hand and laves her body with it, gliding it up and down the length of her right arm, up her neck and chest, then her left arm. She feels the slippery block slide through her wet skin, and she lets her mind drift to this morning, to her _husband_ , to the split second that she'd thought that he was going to kiss her. It actually surprises her how she'd stood immobilized in his arms, anticipating that moment he would press his lips against hers. She hadn't known then, and she doesn't know now, what she'd felt at that moment. She'd been scared, but she had wanted him to do it—to lean in and kiss her, to let their breaths merge as one, because even if he is virtually a stranger, she'd felt something with him that she doesn't remember feeling ever in her whole life or of what she remembers of it, considering how hard it is to gauge when she is missing more than six years of it, but still it had been different).

She doesn't believe in overly romanticized descriptions of love and attraction, in soul mates and in destiny, but it has been hard to ignore the pull, the feeling of every part, every nerve and every fibre, her whole being opening up and reaching out to him as if they are bound to connect and be one, and it no longer matters, isn't clearly defined anymore, where he ends and where she starts.

She shakes her head and places the soap back on the edge of the tub, leaning back, closing her eyes and letting the warmth envelope her senses and drag her away from her own thoughts. She lets herself relax and lets the tension float away from her.

She deserves a minute to herself, she thinks.

 **…**

It isn't until she's sat on her bed, back against the headboard that she remembers the journals. She smiles at the thought of Robert's generosity, his giving her of the journals (even if technically, it is hers), but it's a written proof of she doesn't remember being, a part of her, amalgamated with the person she remembers from the past, the person she could and the person she is now. She wants to make it a point to not only record what she's been up to at any given day, who she is now to be remembered by the person she'll be tomorrow, but also to make notes of what she wants to do, of who she wants to be the next day when she no longer remembers.

It is rather complicated—her situations now—but she does feel that somehow, right at that moment that she's made peace with it. Truth be told, there isn't anything she could do about it. This is exactly what it is, she can't change that. Though she anticipates that come tomorrow morning, it will be another struggle to accept the fate she's been handed, another story of how she will play the cards she's been dealt with.

She takes the old journal and puts in on her lap. She stares at the leather bound cover for a long while, not sure if she should open it, because it does feel like she's invading someone else's privacy. Logically, she does know that it is her, her life, but somehow, on some level, reading her journal when she doesn't remember what is in it feels like she's breaching some kind of rule about confidentiality. It feels odd to think that she is about to get an insight about the life she lived for the past six years. She steels herself, breathing in deeply and exhaling through her mouth. She lets her fingers run down the spine before she flips the cover, opening the journal on the first entry, dated July 2010. She remembers this, still remembers the overwhelming sense of panic that's filled her when she first stepped foot in this rainy little country and realized that she'll be here on her own. She was around twenty-four then, and for the first time in her life, she's out of her family's grasp wandering to the other side of the world. She peers down the notebook and reads through the words written in her scrawl, her mind focusing on the words she'd printed on the pages.

 _'_ _July 12, 2010,_

 _First day in London. Another adventure. I'm half scared, half excited for this new chapter in my life. Although, I must admit, I do find it rather hard to be very adventurous when it's so gloomy and gray. It's supposed to be the summer! Oh well. It does feel like something out of a romantic movie, though. The beauty of this country is just astounding. So here is to hoping for a better weather tomorrow. And a great experience. I'll just have to see. x'_

She'd ended her entry there, with a messy scribble of her name resembling a signature of some sort. She flips through the pages randomly, finding out that she hadn't really recorded her day to day activities for the past six years in the journal. Rather, she's recorded the most important life events, the things worth gushing over, those she didn't want to forget, she supposes. She hadn't recorded the little things, and she feels a twinge of disappointment at thought because it is the small moments, the intervals between the big milestones that make up who she is, make up her life, and now, she doesn't even remember those.

Cora sighs and lets her hand fall and rest limply against the duvet as she shuts her eyes tightly. She takes a deep breath as the tears of frustration well up in her eyes, prickling the back of her eyelids. She feels so tired, so frustrated. God, she just wants to scream.

She would if she could.

The soft knocking on the door startles her, pulling her away from her reverie and making her jump. She opens her eyes slowly, and turns her head towards the general direction of the door as the knob turns and the door opens.

"Hey," her husband greets, poking his head at the door and looking at her with silent concern.

"Hey," she greets back softly with a smile blooming on her face. "Did you need something?"

He pushes the door open further and steps in, closing the door behind him gently. She watches him quietly as he fidgets.

"I wanted to get some clothes," he says, nodding towards their joint closet. She follows with her eyes, her mind instantly remembering the array of suits hanging on the racks that she's noticed today, and the images her mind has conjured of him wearing them and quite possibly looking so dashing in them.

She puts that thought at the back of her head, to be examined at a much later date, perhaps when he isn't standing in front of her. She makes a mental note of putting that down on her journal.

"I wanted to get them now and take some with me in the dressing room, so I won't have to disturb you in the morning," he continues, explaining simply: "I've run out and need some currently."

She nods at him and gives him a soft smile, watching as he moves towards their closet, entering and rummaging through his clothes for the things he might need. He emerges a few minutes later with an armful, piled with stacks of nightshirts and some dress shirts and some pants. On his elbows, a couple of suits are dangling, and she'd laugh if he didn't look so pitiful, trying to balance everything.

She shakes her head and chuckles. "I'm not kicking you out of the house," she teases as she crawls out of the bed to help him.

He chuckles back at her. "I know," he replies, nodding. "I just did not want to have to go through the hassle of going back and forth."

She walks over to where he is standing and cuts his load in half. "Here, let me," she says. He looks about ready to protest, but she cuts him off with a look. "If I'm taking over the bedroom and sending you off to another room, the least I could do is _this_." She lifts her arms filled with his clothes. She then turns around and heads out, giving him no room for arguments.

His footsteps follow her down the hall and she looks back at him with a raise of her eyebrow while he just shakes his head at her. He gestures for the room with the open door and she nods, turning and heading inside the room. She takes in the bland interior. The walls are painted an off-white, not quite beige, not quite white either, the ceiling lined with dark wood, and the furniture are made of dark cherry wood. The bed spread is cream-colored, and there is a large window right at the other side, an open door leading to the bathroom, and some draws—other than that, it's bare of any personality, doesn't at all look lived in, and generally, looks like what it is—a guest room.

She feels bad, thinks once more just how hard it is for him, to be pulled out of his comforts for her sake. It must be difficult for him, for though he might have his own memories intact, he is still left to watch his whole world tip over and turn upside down, upended by this circumstance they've found themselves in, and really, there isn't much he could do about it other than let it run its own course.

"Cora, you're drifting," she hears Robert's voice cutting through the hazy fog in her brain.

She looks at him, the sight of him standing there, looking confounded but concerned for _her_ wellbeing makes her eyes water. She bites her lip and ducks her head once more, walking over to the bed to deposit the stack of his clothes on top of the duvet. She doesn't speak, doesn't make a noise or a squeak, afraid to break the precarious and volatile thread they are walking in right now. She stiffens when his hand clasps around hers, but she feels the tension lifting when he squeezes once, twice, and one last time before letting go.

"Allow me to walk you to your room?" he asks, effectively putting an end to her thoughts, as if he already knows what she is thinking and knows instinctively that she does _not_ want to talk about it.

She whips her head at him and tries to stop her lips from quivering, biting down on her bottom lip as she nods and looks away.

He leads her out the door and they both remain silent as they pad down the quiet halls back to their bedroom. She feels the words lodged on her throat, wanting, needing to spill, but she swallows them back. They pause at the door of the room, and the time seems to stand still as she stands in front of him, her back against the surface as he remains still before her, waiting.

For what, she doesn't know.

"Good night, Robert," she whispers, letting her words bridge the little distance between them that neither of them physically crosses.

"Goodnight, Cora," he responds with, leaning down to kiss her cheek, lingering a little while before pulling back, his breath brushing her skin.

She feels the words rolling down the tip of her tongue. She wants to say sorry for what she is putting him through, to apologize for the pain she must be causing him, but the words are stuck in her throat. Instead, she turns from him and walks to the bedroom, closing the door shut, her hand raising to cushion her head as inside, she falls apart on her own.

 **…**

The day starts out dark and gray, but that isn't really anything new in London. He doesn't know exactly what time it is, can't tell from the lack of sunshine. He turns to his side to peer at the clock, only to be quickly reminded that this isn't their bedroom. He thinks it must be late in the morning already, not that it matters any for he doesn't feel any at all rested, having had a fitful night of sleep even if it had been dreamless. He'd been drifting in and out of slumber, his mind too full even when his body had been too exhausted. Cora is of course, and as usual, the subject of all his thoughts. Her soft skin the last thing he thinks of as he finally falls into an interrupted sleep—that must have been around four in the morning. And now, well now, he has to face another day.

Robert finds that while he had once looked forward to the beginning of the day, waking up next to his wife, he can't seem to find that enthusiasm anymore. If not solely out of the knowledge that today, his wife would have no recollection of him, of their life, and she won't remember anything from the past six years, which is basically everything they had. _Have_. And today, she might be different from the woman he knew. _Knows._

He doesn't blame her for it, cannot blame her for it, really, but he can't help but resent the fates that brought them here. No one's asked for this, not him, not her, especially not her, but the effects have left them both devastated. He also knows she might feel a bit like a fish out of the water as she treads through the life she doesn't even remember, but he cannot help but feel that way too, as he treads through the life he _does_ remember but has been upended so suddenly by the tragedy that has befallen them. He feels like he's been robbed off of a wife, of a life.

The thoughts swirling in his head further dampens his already souring mood, so he shakes himself, trying to wake just enough to throw away the lingering bad thoughts, and he climbs out of bed, stretching all the while his muscles protest. He isn't used to sleeping in this bed, isn't used to sleeping without her, but there isn't much to do, he thinks as he heads straight to bathroom, ready to start the day and take whatever it offers.

He walks down to the kitchen after he's made sure to look presentable enough (and really, by that he means a quick shower, a fresh pair of trousers, and a crisp blue button down polo did the trick), and he finds his mother in law sitting at a chair behind the dining table, munching on a piece of buttered toast and some mixed fruit.

A quick glance at the clock on the wall confirms his initial thoughts, it is rather late in the morning—ten am.

Where is Cora?

"Are you sure you're still allowed to eat anything with that ungodly amount of butter?" he teases his mother in law, scrunching his nose at the amount of butter on her toast. Of course, this is just his own version of ignoring the pink elephant in the room.

Martha snorts at him and rolls her eyes. "Oh please, everyone says that you're only as old as you feel," she tells him, her eyes following him as she makes his own breakfast (bacon, eggs, toasts and some marmite, all ready and prepared by their cook). "And I feel that you're older than me, so…" she continues, shrugging and smirking at him.

He chuckles, taking the seat across her on the table. He gives himself some time, chewing slowly and then swallowing, letting himself get a decent amount of food in his stomach before he even dares to ask. As he was taking a slow sip of his earl grey, Martha raises an eyebrow at him.

"Out with it boy," she orders, giving him a long meaningful stare.

"What?" he asks, faux innocently as he lifts his cup once more to take a sip.

"You aren't very subtle Robert," Martha tells him, shaking her head. When he makes no move to ask or now more, she sighs. "She's awake," she divulges, "She's upstairs in your bedroom, trying to absorb everything. I didn't have to explain much. That journal idea of yours seems to have helped her a lot."

Robert looks up (he's pre-occupied himself with the wonders of bacon whilst his mother in law spoke and he'd listened), his hand drops to the table and he stops pretending for a moment that everything is okay and this is normal.

(It might as well be, he thinks, but that is neither here nor there in regards to the situation in hand.)

"I must warn you," Martha adds as she takes a sip of her coffee. She looks at him over the rim of her cup, brow rising as she places the cup back down. "She's crying and quite sullen. Not at all like what she's been yesterday, warm and touchy feely."

Robert feels himself blush from the roots, but chooses to ignore that little ribbing as he clears his throat. "Is she okay?" he asks, frowning worriedly.

Martha shrugs but he can see the pain behind her eyes. "As fine as she could be under the circumstances," she tells him as she chews and swallows the last of her toast, washing it down with her coffee. "She asked for a processing time, which if you need translation, means cry time."

Robert nods mutely, numbly, sighing. He doesn't know what to say. He knows Cora, knows how she works her grief out of her system, had actually witnessed it firsthand, and he knows that she cries her heart out until she cannot breathe anymore and her eyes become red-rimmed and swollen. He knows how she crawls into a fetal position as she cries, as if being curled up in a ball helps keep her heart from breaking. But it does break, she breaks, and he cannot help but break along with her.

 **…**

Cora feels absolutely heartbroken.

She stares at a blank point on the wall blearily as the tears continue to pour down her cheeks, clouding her vision. She cannot understand how this came to be, and though she doesn't exactly remember what's occurred the day before, she feels so tired, so exhausted. And it's not just the physical exhaustion of crying her heart out, but she feels the bone weariness due to this, her condition, _everything._

Her eyes roam the entirety of the room she's been told she owns with the husband she's been told she has. It does look lived in, looks like she's been here, some of the products she knows she uses scattered in various places. Her heart and her mind ache to remember.

But neither can. Not yet.

Her eyes fall onto her side table and she spots the leather bound journals that her mother had handed to her this morning. She's only read the newer one, the one which had explained to her what exactly is happening, what her condition is, but mother has told her that the other journal holds her memories of the past six years, memories she doesn't remember now. She's been reluctant to open it this morning, not sure of what she'll find. She knows it's about her, but not remembering she's lived that life has thrown her off balance a bit and she's chickened out.

The curiosity to know who she's been when she can't remember and wanting nothing more than to fill in the gaps in her memories makes her sit up now and reach for the journal.

She splays it across her lap, opening it somewhere near the middle, running her finger down the page before lifting it up, just level with her eyes. She scans the words quickly, her face morphing from curiosity to pain as her heart clenches at the news revealed to her.

 _March 15, 2012_

 _Today is a sad, sad day. I don't know to react, don't know how to feel. All I know is that right now, my heart is breaking so much. I feel like it's being torn apart. It isn't time yet, not yet, I don't think. Father had so much to live for, he was so full of life, but now he's gone and I'm just so lost. I'm still in shock, and I don't know what to do. I just want him back._

She feels as though her heart stopped and her blood ran cold. She sits paralyzed, unsure of what to feel, as she looks at the page marred with traces of her tears, traces of her grief. She tries to pick out a distinct emotion from the cornucopia of it inside her but she feels like a mess, feels like those emotions are entangling themselves inside her forming a knot and now she doesn't know which one she actually feels.

Angrily, she rips the sheets from her body and climbs out of bed, her footfalls are loud and strong as she stomps her way to the door and ripping it open. She stalks towards the living room where she hears the television droning on and on, playing background to her mother's and her husband's voices.

"Why did no one tell me that Daddy is dead?" she yells angrily at them, her voice carrying through the volume of their conversation and the buzz of the television. Both her mother and Robert jump, turning towards where she is standing by the door.

Martha looks stricken, tears instantly brimming in her eyes while Robert only looks like he'd really rather not have this conversation right now.

Oh but they are going to have this conversation **now** ** _._**

"Why wouldn't you tell me that?" she demands. "Why would you hide that from me?"

"Cora," her mother begins, her voice soft and low in an attempt to soothe her, to smother the anger she feels bubbling inside of her.

"No," she cuts off. "No I deserved to know!"

"It hardly mattered," her mother says carefully, looking at her and sighing as she points out, "You didn't have your memories."

Robert remains silent, as if he'd really rather just watch this play out than join in.

"Hardly mattered? It's the very reason I deserved to know!" Cora counters, feeling her anger intensify and merge with frustration and pain, and loss. "I needed to know that he's…"

"I'm sorry," Martha murmurs quietly, looking pained and making a move to get up, but Cora raises her hand in dismissal and shakes her head.

"I can't," Cora mutters, sniffling before turning around and running away, letting her feet carry her where it would.

She runs towards the yard, the garden, unsure exactly where she's going and only realizing so when she found the abundance of flowers scattered across the grounds. Gorgeous ones, her favorites, but that hardly matters now. She runs towards the heart of the small garden, finding a nook where vines seemed to grow over a frame of woods, making a shed like form. There is a swing that works as a bench underneath the roof made of fiber glass covered by over grown vines and some leaves. It looks like a sanctuary, perfectly hidden from the view from the house, kept away from intruders.

She walks over to the bench and takes a seat, her shoulders slumping as she breathes deeply. She feels the tears prickling her eyelids, and she breathes out, trying to control them from spilling. But an errant tear makes it down her cheeks, followed by another, and before she knows it she's sobbing, breaking down, her tears falling in quick succession.

Her head falls to her open palms and she stays that way for long moments, just crying her heart out. It won't change anything, won't bring back her dead father, won't turn back time and would certainly not bring back her memories. But the pain of not having known the truth hurts and the anger that permeates through the pain makes her unsusceptible to reason.

She is totally unaware of anything at that point, but she feels his presence before she sees him or even hears him, and she lifts her head from the cushion of her palms and peers up at him. She feels anger rise through the defeated feeling that has settled in her chest. She glares at him.

"What are you doing here?" she asks angrily.

He shrugs and slips his hand in the pocket of his trousers to fish out his starched white handkerchief which he hands to her.

"Here," he says, extending the cloth toward her.

She takes it from him gingerly, looking at him guardedly, and uses it dab around the corner of her eyes and against her cheek, drying her tears. She sniffs and rests her hands down her lap, also looking down to avoid looking at him.

The bench swings a bit and she looks sideways to find him taking the seat next to her. She raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything, making him sigh.

"I'm sorry," she hears him mumble and she wonders if this isn't a common occurrence, him apologizing. His shoulders are tensed even if he is leaning over with his elbows on his knees. He is breathing in and out deeply, as if nervous.

But her anger is not easily abated, her pain not easily removed. She is angry that her father is dead, angry that they never told her. Her fists clench on her lap and she bites her lip, trying to contain the urge to just start yelling at him.

"Neither your mother nor I had wanted to keep that information from you," he explains, his voice soft and low. "We were just…preoccupied."

"I don't even know how he died," she tells him, tears of frustration now coursing down her cheeks.

God this is just so messed up.

He was her father! How can she not know? How can she not remember?

"Frederick died of a heart attack love," he tells her, supplying the information that her brain can't remember, information lost to her. "Your mother found him in their bedroom, by the time he arrived at the hospital he was proclaimed dead. We hadn't meant to hide that from you. We didn't do it intentionally, at least. We knew you were going to be so positively heartbroken, and we didn't want to hurt you."

"You kept the fact that my father is dead from me! What did you expect me to feel? Elated?" she bursts out incredulously. She supposes she simply should have asked them about it, but she also she supposes she's been too preoccupied trying to remember the past six years.

"No of course not," he says gently, trying to diffuse her anger, _oh_ , but she is not going to be handled. "We just hadn't wanted you to have to worry about it on top of your memory loss, you should be focusing on your recovery."

"He was my father," Cora exclaims, standing up. She almost sounds like a petulant child.

"Sometimes, Cora, you could be so curiously unfeeling," Robert mutters, making her face scrunch into something akin to anger and disbelief. "You must know that we have only wanted what is best for you. We didn't say anything because you were recovering, still are. Perhaps it slipped our minds, perhaps we hadn't really thought it was the right time to tell you. You're going to have excuse us, Cora because you were the one we were thinking of all the while. And you know what, perhaps it doesn't even bloody matter because tomorrow morning, you won't remember a goddamn thing," he says, his voice increasing in volume at every inflection. He is trembling, fists clenched as he also stands now, facing her. "Perhaps the fact that there are some things you don't know yet is for the best!"

"Things I don't know?"she echoes, the anger pulsating in her veins blinding her and refusing to see his side. "There are more?"

He looks at her sharply, blanching as though he isn't meant to say that, and that he just opened a whole new can of worms. That is probably the case. He wrings his hands together and sighs, shaking his head.

"Nothing," he says, his voice clipped and his stance stiff and guarded.

She doesn't know him, no beyond what she's been told, but instinctively she knows. She isn't stupid or born yesterday, she knows he's lying.

"Stop lying to my face," she spats acidly at him. "What else are you hiding from me?"

There is a beat that passes between them, an elongated silence, a pause pregnant with the words looming overhead and laced with tension so thick, it can be cut by a knife.

She watches him purse his lip stubbornly as he stands there, ramrod straight. He radiates of secrets ept, and by god if it's something that concerns her, she has every goddamn right to know.

"Robert," she hisses, staring at him piercingly.

"Cora, you won't even remember tomorrow," he tries to reason with her but she only shakes her head.

"You're either going to tell me now or I dig that journal and tear it apart until I find out," she warns dangerously at him. "God knows how that's going to end up."

That seems to do it, because he sighs and bites his lip before whispering huskily, his voice filled with anguish and thick with unshed tears: "You had a miscarriage." He looks at her dead in the eye, then. "The same year your father died…you lost our baby."

* * *

 **A/n: Sorry? I had to set this up so well, im just casually dropping that here. Please everyone, let me know your thoughts?**

 **Also, I apologize for the quality? this chapter kinda sucks, but it seriously kicked my ass. :( anyway, there we are. Reviews would be lovely!**


	6. 6- But pieces fall apart

_Hello Hello! Thank you everyone for your patience. I'm awful at updating and I'm sorry! I hope everyone is having a great weekend!_

Unbetaed forever. Ignore the mistakes.

 _Enjoy this update._

* * *

 ** _Chapter Six_**

 _We live in pieces, but pieces fall apart_

There is a draft that passes as his words linger in the air, thick and heavy. The time feels like it's stood still, like gravity has shifted somewhat. It feels like all of her senses are heightened, all of the noise and sound a decibel higher, all of her nerving tingling and shot, and every detail magnified but blurred as her heart thumps loudly in her chest, following a staccato beat. Her tongue feels short and her throat feels dry. She feels everything and nothing all at the same time.

"Cora," she hears him whisper, cutting through the haze brought about by his words. She can see through her peripheral vision that he is attempting to reach for her, and that gives her a start.

"Don't," she snaps, taking a step back. "Don't you _fucking_ dare touch me."

She is not a person who swears, has tried not to all these years, but the words are out of her mouth before she could stop them.

"Cora," he tries again, to cajole her no doubt, but his attempts fall flat as she only glares at him, slapping away quickly the hand he uses to reach over for her.

"You," she growls, low in her throat, her voice dripping of fury, her nose flaring as her anger rises and rises—to the point that she's finding it hard to swallow it back. "You hid this from me? You never thought to tell e that I lost a baby? _My_ baby?"

Robert makes a sound of frustration, or desperation, she couldn't quite tell, probably both. He lifts his hand and rubs it over his face tiredly. "When have I had the time?" he asks, almost pleadingly.

She should understand, she knows, but she can't. She doesn't want to.

"Probably anytime in the past month!" she yells, unable to control the rage that is brewing inside of her. There is time, there is always time.

"You barely look at me, much less talk to me. Let's not even talk about whether or not you trust me. How on earth was I supposed to tell you that you lost **our** child?" he asks once more, emphasizing on the word ' _our'._

He's right, and no, she doesn't know how to respond to that.

"I had the right to know," she says instead, murmuring quietly as she looks away, anger leaving her body replaced with pain and weariness that she feels to her bones. She feels her knees tremble and her legs give out, and she plops down in the bench, tears cascading her cheeks as her tears fall anew. "Everything that has happened to me…I can't remember them anymore. I don't know who I was for the past six years, what has happened…nothing. I needed to know that, you had no right to keep it from me."

The bench shifts to his added weight, when he takes the seat beside her. He takes her hand in his again, and this time she doesn't stop him or wrench them away. Her need for comfort now overrides her need to continue being angry and lash out. Holding on to her anger would only prove to make her more miserable, and with everything that is going on with her life now, that seems to be the last thing she needs: to be even more miserable than she already is.

"It's my life, Robert," she adds in a mumble as sobs rack her already tired body, "It's my life and I can't even remember."

"I'm sorry," he says, his hand coming up to rub her back soothingly, pressing against her flesh, his warmth seeping through her layers of clothing making her shiver involuntarily. "I'm sorry you have to go through this. I'm sorry for your pain."

She cannot say anything, her pain seems to overflow now from her chest, pouring out of her in the form of her tears, and she sniffles, leaning in closer to her as he wraps his arms around her. She feels his lips pressing against her temple again and again, and she lets him, lets him comfort her this way because she feels good being in his arms, feels great being held by him in this way. And so she lets him share the burden, the pain of feeling herself lose her child once more, the child she doesn't even remember.

She doesn't even know if she's grieved her child. And it _is_ her child, her baby, she doesn't remember it right now, but it is hers. Her child. She's carried it in her womb, shared it's life for however brief a time, and it hurts to know that she doesn't remember, won't remember come morning.

He whispers words of comfort to her, against her skin, the soft words flowing smoothly from his lips and they caress her like a gentle breeze, but it is not a balm to her aching soul, not just now. The words slide off and they mean nothing.

She doesn't think she can be comforted.

 **…**

He should feel elated, happy as she comes into his embrace, albeit unwillingly at the start, but he isn't. She is there, soft and pliant, crying on his shoulder over the child they shared and lost, and he could not find it in himself to be happy, to feel enthused over holding her. Having her in his arms is never a hardship, he loves it, loves holding her so much, but the circumstances in which they'd found themselves in leave very little to be happy about. He feels the pain that radiates off his chest at the sight of her so torn, so in pain and so burdened by the memory she's forgotten—a very important memory. She falls apart in his arms, and he cannot do anything about it, cannot say anything to make the pain go away. He cannot, and in fact, no one really can.

Even now, as he holds her and lets her cry over and over and over what she has already cried over in the past, he feels the dull throbbing in his heart. And he feels like he is being stabbed, repeatedly, breaking him down.

But he cannot break down now, not when she's counting on him to be her pillar of strength. She hasn't explicitly asked, but he can feel it, can feel her body sag against his, seeking comfort for the pain that bleeds through her very being. She is a mother, through and through, and though she cannot remember it now, and though it had been a brief time, she has been one, and finding out what she's found out know—well, the pain of that never really goes away. So, he cannot, under any circumstances, fall apart now.

She sniffs and lifts her head from his chest and looks at him brokenly. He pushes back the wisps of hair that fell on her forehead.

"You know, you told me before that at least now, you think that our baby didn't feel any more pain," he tells her softly, remembering her saying that before when she's found him sequestered in a room, crying for the loss of his child. "I know it might not be so much a consolation—," he pauses as she nods at him and bites her lip, definitely mulling it over all the while looking down at her lap.

"Was it…" the words fall from her lips and trail off into the chilly air. She shivers and he has the urge to pull her closer, but he resists, tightens his fist, instead. But she seems to move a bit closer to him, trying to stave off the chill through the heat radiating off of him.

"It was a boy," he whispers, letting the word sink in, remembering that day in the hospital when Cora had a scan and they found out it was a boy. They had been very excited then, and they held each other tightly that night, dreaming of the future, so blissfully unaware of how abruptly things would change.

His words brings her to tears once more, and the sob that escapes her lips makes his heart jump and then break, and he feels so helpless because he isn't even sure how to comfort her. If he's honest, he hasn't quite moved on from it yet, either, and seeing her like this, watching her find out for the first time once more, it reawakens the old pain and reopens the old wounds he thought he'd been able to heal. He pulls her to him and lets her sob in his chest once more, like he's done before, like he will always do for her.

There is no life where he won't be here for her, never a life where he won't love her this much, like this, because there is really no world where he would exist where he isn't with her, loving her with everything that he has.

 **…**

It takes a long while before her tears abate, before she feels like she's dried out of tears. The pain is there, dull and throbbing but she doesn't think she can cry anymore. She lets her breathing even by taking deep, shuddering breaths. She looks up at him and heaves a watery sigh.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice husky. "I should have never snapped at you." She feels so shameful for her actions, so remorseful for the pain she's caused him, and he looks so pained.

"And I'm sorry for not telling you," he says, reaching out to hold her hand. She lets him. Her hands feel as cold as ice, and his warmth is bringing back to hers. "We should have told you. It was your life, we didn't have the right to keep it from you."

"You're right though," she disagrees softly, sounding defeated. "It doesn't matter. I won't remember in the morning."

The pain in her chest threatens to swallow her whole, but she can't do anything. He doesn't say anything either. They both know it. Nothing is going to make her feel better.

Silence surrounds them as they sit together in her little nook, letting the events of the day sink into them. His hand remains holding hers, and they just sit there, basking in being together, in sharing the pain they both feel.

"Are you warm enough still?" he asks softy, turning to her, breaking the silence. The wind just got a bit colder.

But the heat that radiates of off him makes her feel warm. She shakes her head in the affirmative. "I am," she says with a small smile. It isn't forced, she freely gives it to him, even if it's small and shy, tentative. "I am when you're holding my hand."

He smiles back at her then, and lets the silence envelope them again. It's been a long day and surely, both of them are exhausted not only physically but also mentally and emotionally, and they deserve a break, a rest from the long emotional roller coaster of a day. She can feel weariness creeping to her bones now.

She pulls away just as a draft passes them by and makes her shiver. She looks over at him and sighs. "I think I might go for a nap," she tells him as she stands up,

He nods at her and stands up alongside her. He offers her his hand and smiles when she takes it. They enter the room, finding an anxious Martha waiting for them, at Cora's nod, her mother sighs and nods as well before she disappears into her room. Robert leads Cora to the bedroom they used to share, and dropping a kiss into her cheek, he goes, leaving her watching his retreating back worriedly.

 **…**

Robert is never the one to wear his heart out on his sleeves, he doesn't show his emotions, cannot cry in front of anyone—he is afraid that it might make him weak. It has only been Cora who had been able to draw out emotions from with a carefully placed hand on his arm, a soothing caress up and down her back, her palm against his cheek, or her lips upon his brow. She has never failed to let him feel freely, mostly because she tends to share his burden and lets him know that she is there, she won't be going anywhere.

He misses that.

He sighs as he closes the door to the study, the thud sounding louder than the sob that escapes his lips. He's a wreck, a wreck that he can no longer fix. He feels the pain of losing his child tear into him anew, and now it's even worse because he feels like he is losing the woman he loves as well.

He feels alone, feels vulnerable and breakable under the pain.

With wobbling knees, he walks towards the window, searches the garden that can be looked over in this room. He has imagined watching their child from here, as it played with its mother, and he'd imagined Cora's face as she chases after the tot, and he couldn't feel but feel like a vise is gripping his heart. It's hard, so painful and difficult and he isn't entirely sure how he had been able to get through it the first time.

No, he knows, he'd had her by his side then.

He balls his hands into fists as tears course down his cheeks. How is he so emotional over a child he's never been able to hold? Their boy had been too little, too young then that it hadn't survived. At four and a half months, it hadn't been viable to live outside of its mother. And for the longest time Cora had blamed herself over the loss of their child. She'd been stressed, had been depressed over the death of her father, and one day when she'd stepped out of the shower, she'd slipped and had a miscarriage. She'd blamed herself.

He blamed himself.

He should have been there for her, protecting her, helping her.

But they had healed from those wounds—it had been an accident that neither of them had wanted or foresaw, and they had to let go of the pain and the guilt or let it eat the alive.

Remembering it now, though, it reminds him that the wounds might have healed, but they've left scars behind, enough marks to know that the pain would last forever.

The sound of the door opening breaks his reverie and he hears footsteps coming towards him. Before he could reach up to wipe the traces of his tears, he feels soft fingers brushing them away and he looks down to find his wife standing in front of him, staring up at him with watery eyes. Her lips are quivering and her own hands are shaking as she cups his cheek. He couldn't help himself, he goes and nips her by the waist, pulling her closer to him and sobbing his heart out.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbles over and over, apologizing for their child, and this situation, and his inability to hold it together for her. The pain is fresh and deep, and he feels like a cad to be digging this up from the dredges—no matter how unanticipated it had been.

"Robert," she husks against his chest, her words muffled by the soft fabric of his shirt, "I'm sorry too."

But she needs not apologize. None of this is her fault.

"You'd have been a terrific mother, Cora," he whispers against her hair as his tears keep falling. He sniffs, holding her closer to him.

She smiles softly. "You'd have been a great father," she tells him as she buries her head against his chest even further. "We'd have loved our baby so much."

"We do," Robert says. "I know you don't remember, but we do, Cora, we do."

She nods, she feels it too, it seems. She feels love for the baby they shared and lost, and his faith strengthens, even if she doesn't remember, they will find their way back to each other. He just knows it.

 **…**

The rest of the weeks pass by in a blur, in rather the same fashion. But now, Cora has less much of the freak outs she used to have. Having the journal helped her. She's put on a sticky note on the cover of the journals saying _Read this_ in her loopy hand writing. After she reads them in the morning, she becomes more receptive to her mother's explanations and more receptive to her husband even if she is a bit hesitant.

This week, they are to bring her to her first appointment to her therapist. They are going to try and condition that part of her brain to be more amenable to storing new memories. Cora had readily agreed when Robert and Martha had discusses it with her during dinner, and she'd been excited to go, excited to revive and remember that part of her she's lost.

It is not to say that she isn't nervous—she is, more than just a little in fact. But mother's hand grasps hers reassuringly and she tries to fortify herself, telling herself that she needs this. Her husband had been supportive as well, trying to let her have as much space as she wanted, needed. There are days when she is an absolute bear, and she's aware of that, but he has never lost his patience. It makes her think that she doesn't deserve him, doesn't deserve this much devotion, because while she might feel a pull towards him, she realizes as the time passes by that she doesn't quite reciprocate his feelings. She isn't quite there yet.

She is well aware of the moment she's shared with him the past few weeks, she doesn't remember them, but her journal reminds her, and so does her mother. And she is well aware of the feelings he harbors for her, the same feelings she might have once felt for him, too, they are married after all. But right now, now that she can't remember much about her past and is solely relying on the bits and pieces she's gotten from her journals—she can't tell that she is one hundred percent sure she's right there with him.

It's not something she's told anyone, not really. And it isn't something she feels comfortable ever telling anyone either, to be honest. So she keeps to herself and tries to put as much distance as she can between them. He is understanding, gives her what she needs even as she could see the pain that crosses his face when she chooses her mother's company over his. Quietly, he'd nod and then leave them, and as soon as he's out of earshot, Martha would scold her, but there isn't much that she could do about it.

She cannot very well order her heart to love a man she doesn't remember, doesn't know.

 **…**

She is pulling away. She is pulling away, he knows it, but he cannot do anything about it. He cannot force her to remember, to feel the same way, to keep holding on, because he knows that he isn't going to be able to live with himself knowing that he's forced her to stay with him.

But god, he cannot honestly live in a life where she isn't his to love, where he isn't hers to love.

He's torn between fighting for her and letting her go if and when it comes down to it and that is what she wishes.

He has gone and called his sister so many times, asking her advice over this, and she had been telling him one thing: _be patient._ But a heart so torn can only be patient for long before it is breaking, confused and hanging by a thread of the unknown.

"Robert?" he hears someone say, ridding him of his thoughts and he looks to his left to find his mother-in-law staring at him. "You're going to have to turn left on the next corner."

Oh, and yes, he needs to focus.

He nods without a word and turns on the next corner. The hospital comes up in his view and he breathes out shakily, feeling more nervous than Cora probably does. He parks the car on the lot and they all pile out of the vehicle without a word.

The nurse greets them when they walk in, leading them to the right room after a few inquiries. He watches Cora pensively, watches as she clings to her mother quietly, watches her bite her lip again and again, knowing she's nervous as all hell, and wishing so much that he could be the one to comfort her, but he cannot. He cannot because she doesn't seem to want him to.

Pushing the door open, they walk into Cora's therapist's office. They are greeted by her doctor, a woman who is probably around their age, with a kind smile and almond eyes that are alight with something akin to kindness. She beckons them to sit on the empty chairs in front of her desk.

"Good morning," she greets pleasantly, her smile soft. "I'm Phyllis Baxter, I'm assuming that you are Cora Crawley." She turns to Cora who is sitting next to her mother, fidgeting.

Cora nods. "It's a pleasure to meet you," Cora says with a trembling smile.

"And you must be Mr. Crawley," Dr. Baxter says turning to him, and he nods, extending his hand, which she shakes before she turns to Martha, "And Mrs. Levinson, her mum?" Martha nods and shakes her hand. Phyllis Baxter sits up straighter. "Alright, I'm going to need Mrs. Crawley on her own. We're going to start with a bit of talk for now. It won't take as long as her the regular sessions where we'd have the actual exercises but I thought it would be nice if we got to know each other on this session, so it'd be more comfortable on the next ones." She turns to Cora with a smile. "Are you agreeable to that, Mrs. Crawley?"

Cora nods meekly, and looks at her mother for reassurance. Martha nods and squeezes her daughter's hand. Robert sits there, feeling absolutely helpless.

"Alright then," Phyllis Baxter says, smiling at him and Martha before the two excuses themselves and takes their leave.

When the door closes, Robert heaves a sigh. There isn't anything he could do now but wait.

 **…**

Cora bites her lips nervously as her therapist looks at her with a soft, sympathetic smile. She fiddles with her thumbs and waits for the unknown.

"How are you feeling, Mrs. Crawley?" Phyllis asks, watching her.

Cora shrugs. "Nervous," she admits as she licks her dry lips and breathes deeply. She is nervous. God, she's shaking.

"There is nothing to be nervous of, Cora—Cora, may I call you that?" Phyllis asks and Cora nods. "Good, then you may call me Phyllis. So, how have you been the past few days?"

Cora shrugs once more. She doesn't know. "I don't really remember," she points out, looking up at her therapist. "I uh—you must know about my condition."

Phyllis nods. "Yes, I do," she replies, leaning forward to be a bit closer to Cora. "How does that make you feel?"

Cora looks down again and tries to stop her tears from flowing. "I don't know," she confesses. She doesn't really. There are far too much emotions running through her about her situation that she just doesn't know anymore. "I'm scared and frustrated and furious."

"Furious?" Phyllis asks cautiously. "Why are you furious?"

Cora snorts. "Who wouldn't be?" she asks ironically. "I'm trapped in a limbo where I don't remember my past but I cannot live in the present either because I sleep, and then bam, I wake without any memories. It makes me furious because I know how much pain I'm causing to everyone, how inconvenient, and that makes me so damn angry because this is my life and I cannot seem to take control of it." Angry, hot tears have started rolling down her cheeks at this point and she reaches up to wipe them away. "It doesn't feel like _my_ life anymore." She sniffs and looks away. "And I don't want to keep hurting everyone anymore."

"Do you mean your husband?" Phyllis asks boldly and Cora snaps her head to look at her therapist, "Because I imagine it is as hard for him as it is for you."

Cora nods slowly. That is true. "I can't love him the way he loves me, the way he remembers me loving him," she admits. "But I cannot tell him that."

"Why not?" Phyllis asks, sounding genuinely curious.

Cora looks at her sharply. "How on earth am I going to tell him that the woman he's once loved is gone? Sure she comes to visit, for the most part, I don't even know where she's gone."

"Comes to visit?" A look of confusion crosses her therapist's eyes.

"Sometimes, I feel something…like a pull, towards him, I know somewhere in there, _his_ Cora is in there. But most days, I feel like I cannot get away from him far enough…because I don't know. I don't feel like I'm the woman he wishes I am. I don't feel like I'm the Cora he's lost, because I don't remember that Cora."

"Maybe you should tell him that," Phyllis says softly.

Cora shakes her head and groans. She wishes she could. She really, really does.

* * *

 **A/N:** _I know it isn't so long, but I'm really all dried out from all the things we have to finish in Uni, so I apologize. I promise we're heading somewhere. So just sit back and hold on, there is a plot in there somewhere haha. I'm really sorry for this crapola of a chapter. I have no excuse other than exhaustion, but i hope it tides you over for a little while._ And I promise I'll try to churn out a better update next time. Thanks for reading and tell me what you think!


	7. 7: I want to feel that way again

**I have taken a few creative liberties with this chapter. I have read up about it until I had been dried out, but yeah, this happened anyway. So yes, let's just roll with it, yeah? Unbeta-ed.**

 **Enjoy!**

* * *

 ** _Chapter Seven_**

 _I miss the way it felt back then, I want to feel that way again_

* * *

There is a recurring theme to her journal entries: one, she seems to realize on a daily basis that Robert loves her, that, and that she doesn't seem to think that she can be the woman he's in love with.

What she'd told the therapist on her first session had been true. She doesn't really feel like she can live up to the Cora he used to know, and she knows that because she's read her own words, the words of woman whose memories fade away come morning, but whose had a consistent recording of how she sees the love pouring out of her husband's eyes and how sad she is that come the next day, she won't realize it until the twilight settles, and when dawn breaks she'd have forgotten that already. She knows because she's read her old entries and it seems that the Cora she used to be is too far from her own reach now, as the Cora she seems to be, the broken one.

Of course, those are her thoughts now. God knows what her thoughts would be tomorrow.

She isn't even sure if her therapy sessions, the exhausting exercises for her brain is all worth it. She knows she's made a lot of progress, her brain now seems to be able to store memories in fragments, in fractals. It's been sporadic and inconsistent—sometimes she wakes up and remembers the happenings from yesterday, or even up to three days ago, sometimes she'd wake up and have no recollections of the day before at al—but it is progress, or so her mother and Robert says.

It's just that it frustrates her so much. Her life revolves and relies on a notebook, well two to be exact, just so she can remember, just so things don't fall apart. She is tired of not being able to control her own life. She is tired of not knowing, not remembering all the things she is supposed to, of not remembering her own life. She just wants to regain her life and be able to live it without the hindrance of lost memories and the inability to make new ones.

Cora sighs heavily as her thoughts plague her, and she rolls in the soft bed, the day before now gone from her memories. She's flipping through her journals, the neon pink sticky note sticking out from the cover telling her to read the notebook, which thankfully she had done before she lost her cool this morning. She bites her lip as pain fills her chest—this is her life, why can't she remember?

But that isn't even the question is it?

When is she going to start remembering?

When is she going to be able to start and keep new ones?

She turns the page and scans the words, letting the words sink into her and letting her mind conjure images of the events, letting it unfold even if it is only in her imagination.

* * *

 _Robert has proposed._

 _And it is the most wonderful thing. He'd flown me to Prague, one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I actually almost believed that it's just another date. I should have known better, a grand scheme like this meant he was hiding something big, a grand gesture. And he was._

 _It had been sun down, the skies were bursting in oranges and purples, the lights turning on as the daylight faded into dusk. He'd been nervous, I could tell, and I'd wondered why. I even asked him. But he'd shrugged it off, said I was seeing things. Well, it turns out I was not! He'd led me down St. Charles' bridge. He talked to me about the future, how he'd never thought that love had been in the cards, never thought he'd fall in love actually, until he'd met me. He made this wonderful speech about finding that one person to complete his broken soul, and that he'd realized it was me. Oh, by god it was really romantic._

 _I smiled at him, and I could swear that the sun and the moon rose and hung in his eyes. And I know how cliché that sounds, but everyone does need a bit of cliché in their lives, don't they? Never thought I'd live it, though. I never really thought I'd find the prince I had often dreamt about when I was child, never thought I'd find him now and never thought he'd have an accent to die for, but I did._

 _And he'd proposed. He'd gotten down on one knee after he'd finished his speech, saying he never wants to ever feel broken anymore, so would I do him the pleasure of being his wife._

 _I said yes, of course._

 _How could I not?_

 _He had just made my dreams come true. He_ _ **is**_ _my dream come true. And now, he's just about to ensure my happily ever after._

* * *

It must have been wonderful, his proposal. The way she's written it, it does sound like it had been grand and romantic—flying her to Prague and proposing there, in one of her most favorite cities. He must have loved her very much. Too bad she cannot remember any of it.

Mother says she's getting better. She's been told this morning that yesterday, she woke up with her memories from the last three days still in her mind. It is only today that she woke up to find herself in a strange room, in a strange place. She'd panicked, but she read the journal and then mother had come swooping in the room, asking her what she remembers, explaining further what she's already read when she shook her head saying she doesn't remember much, just that it is 2010. After mother explained everything, she's understood, but it didn't make her any less tensed. The worry had stayed in her, gnawing at her.

Cora shifts again as she closes the journal and tosses it to the side. The soft rapping on the door interrupts her thoughts and she looks up, waits for whoever it is to enter. Her eyes close just as the door creaks open.

"Cora?" she hears her mother's voice but she doesn't open her eyes. She's sent her mother out of the room earlier this morning, but she finds she still cannot face her. "Cora, darling?"

"I'm awake," she mumbles without opening her eyes. She hears the door close and then the sound of her mother's footsteps follow.

The bed dips from the added weight when Martha sits beside Cora. Cora feels her mother's fingers thread through her hair, and it's soothing, wonderful, just what she needs right now. She keeps her eyes close as her mother hums for a little while, lulling her.

"Want to go have breakfast with us downstairs?" her mother asks after a while. "Or do you want to eat here?"

Cora bites her lips and then puts her hand together, slipping them under her head before she opens her eyes and stares up at her mother. Her mother's eyes are filled with concern, maybe even pity, laced with a little bit of exhaustion.

"Is he there?" she hears herself ask.

Martha nods. Of course he would be. This is his—their—house.

"He'll understand if you'd want to eat here, you must be overwhelmed," her mother says, smiling at her softly.

And yes, he would, but for how long would she be hiding from him?

"I'm fine," she says, though unconvincingly even to her own ears, "It's fine." Maybe she can say it enough until she herself believes it.

"You don't have to push yourself," her mother tells her as she strokes her hair lightly. "Robert loves you, he would understand."

There it is again. Love. Robert loves her, but she doesn't remember, and somehow, at some point in her life she must have loved him back, only, she doesn't know how or why. What is it about him that made her fall in love with him. Right at this moment, she only even knows how he looks like because of the picture of him on the table.

"I said it's fine mother," she snaps, feeling bad about it immediately. She looks up at her mother, sighing. "I'm sorry. I'm just—I just can't help but feel frustrated."

"I know." Her mother nods, and it is with empathy that she looks back down at Cora, but Cora doesn't want empathy. She wants her memories back.

Cora knows that this must have been an everyday occurrence in this household, for her to wake up like this, without memories and struggling to make new ones. It must be second nature now to explain to her the intricacies of her illness, and they must be taking this situation with their breakfast, but she doesn't remember any of it, and every day that she wakes up is as new as it had been the day before, quite literally too, because everything, every single memory from the day before has been wiped out.

Cora feels the tears leak through her eyes, flowing down her cheeks, and she wishes she could stop it, wishes she would stop feeling like this—powerless, weak, vulnerable. She hates it, and maybe that is something she's said every day, but she doesn't even know that.

"I know it's difficult," Martha says softly after a few beats of silence. "The first time you woke up with amnesia had been so difficult, and the first time you woke up without memories after three days of finally remembering, that had been heart shattering," Martha pauses for a while to breathe in deeply. Cora hears her mother's breath hitch, as though she is about to cry, and try though as she might, Cora doesn't even remember when she's last seen or heard her mother cry. "All the days in between had not exactly been a picnic either. Trust me, all we want is for you to feel better, to be better. And we know no one has it the hardest than you, but you can't let anger and frustration get the better of you. Your therapy has been working and you have been making progress. You can't let yourself lose hope."

Cora scoffs. "Hope is naught but a dirty four letter word," she retorts, the skepticism getting the best of her now.

Martha pats her head. "You will find, in time, that hope can be everything that you need."

Cora wonders if time would ever come.

 **…**

It is Thanksgiving. Or at least, if he is an American, it would be.

Robert doesn't really celebrate, hadn't really celebrated until he and Cora had been together. She'd always celebrate it, always make a little feast to commemorate the holiday back in her motherland. She'd always video call with her mother and brother, and often, they would invite Rosamund and Duke to dine with them.

Rosamund had been all too willing to tag along for the free food.

Today, he prepares for the feast that his wife has always loved. He knows that she might not remember celebrating it with him, but he also knows that she will remember loving the holiday, and it is what is more important. She's always that it is when the countdown to Christmas starts.

He wants her to feel comfortable, wants to bring to her a little piece of home that is now lost to her. He wants her to see that even as she's moved to the UK, she'd always be an All American Girl, down to the holidays she celebrated.

As he putters away in the dining room, organizing the food cooked for them by his dear cook, he wonders where Cora is and what she's been up to. She's mostly kept to herself today, having been hit hard by the fact that she's forgotten so much once more, adding to that the fact that she's been able to remember the days up until this point. She'd only come down to eat with them at lunch, opting to have her breakfast in her bedroom, after all, and deciding then not to come down again. He'd enlisted his mother in law's help to pull of this day, and she's been a trooper, agreeing to keep her daughter busy as he tried to get all of this together. It hadn't been hard, on Martha's part, anyway, since Cora seems to have no desire to go down.

Though dismayed, he holds on to the hope that she'll get better. After all, her having retained her memories for three whole days is a feat, and maybe he could add tha to the list of things he is thankful for this year.

He hears a noise from the entry way, and he looks up, finding Cora standing there looking baffled and bewildered. Just in time. He smiles at her softly, not wanting to scare her away. He knows that she knows the extent of their relations by now, but he is wary and threads through this lightly. Just because she knows they are married, doesn't mean she trusts him. And though the very fact saddens him, it is the truth and he'll just have to deal with it.

"What's happening?" Cora asks, guardedly, as she crosses her arms against her chest. She looks up at him with curious eyes, but at least she isn't accusing him of anything, yet.

"Happy thanksgiving!" he greets her with as much enthusiasm as he could without frightening her. "Or at least it would be if we were in America."

She narrows her eyes at him. "You aren't even American," she tells him, and still, there is no accusation in her tone, just genuine curiosity.

That's good.

"Where you're mother?" he asks instead, not wanting to divulge the reason why he's celebrating this, even, as she's pointed out, he's not American.

"Upstairs, getting changed," she answers, still a little bit dubious.

"Well," he says, clapping his hands together and smiling at her. "Why don't you take a seat, and we can start out Thanksgiving dinner?"

She lets her narrowed eyes trained on him, but lets him pull out a chair for her. He takes the seat at the head of the table as they wait for Martha to finally arrive. It is a tensed few minutes, neither of them knowing what to say or if there is anything else to say. It is all that Robert could stand, and just as he is sure to do something he'd probably regret, Martha mercifully comes down.

"Hello!" Martha greets exuberantly, as though she feels none of the tension that has enveloped the room within the last couple of minutes. "Happy Thanksgiving!"

"Happy Thanksgiving," both Cora and Robert murmur, looking away when they realized what had happened.

Martha takes a seat then, and looks up at Robert expectantly. Robert sighs and holds out his hands. He feels his heart quicken when Cora's soft one slides into his. He lifts his eyes and finds her studying their joined hands curiously, before her mother clears her throat, making her look away. Robert then says grace, before he cuts through the bird, the abrupt way that Cora pulls her hand from his making his heart break a little…okay, a lot, he could almost feel it crack inside his chest.

"Where are Rosamund and her husband?" Martha asks, making Robert snap his attention to her.

He shrugs. "I…they were busy," he says, and he doesn't need to say anything more for Martha to know that he hadn't invited them, and she seems to understand why.

"Who is Rosamund?" he hears Cora ask in a small voice.

He turns to her and smiles reassuringly, trying to tell her without the words that it's okay if she doesn't remember. Not that that he thinks it helps her any.

"My sister," he informs her. "She always comes for this, but she and Duke, her husband, were busy today."

Cora nods, seemingly placated by his explanation, before she digs into the mash and taking a bite of the turkey. She looks lighter, looks like she's more relieved and some of the tension has been lifted from her, and he couldn't help but breathe out in sheer relief.

And as he looks at her, smile on her face as she converses with her mother about her brother, he couldn't help but be grateful. No matter how hard this situation seems to be for them all, at least she's alive to celebrate this day with them—memories or not.

That is something he will always be grateful for.

 **…**

She finds him outside, at the patio, a little while after dinner, when they had all been stuffed to the gills and food coma had started to kick in. He, her husband, is sitting on the white swinging chair, looking out at the night, staring up at the stars.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she asks him softly, as to not startle him. But he seems to have been so deep in thoughts that she'd managed to surprise him still. "I'm sorry, I didn't meant to make you jump."

"It's fine," he says, nodding. He watches her as she takes the seat beside him, putting enough distance enough them to be polite, though she realizes there is not a need to be. He smiles. "It is beautiful. The moon glows so bright."

She nods, too, looking up at the moon. "Thank you," she whispers, after the silence stretches a while. "I…You have brought to me a piece of my home, thank you."

She sees his face fall when she mentions that America is her home, she must have told him some time ago that he is her home or something equally as cheesy as that, she definitely sees herself doing that. And that might have been true at one point, but right now, it isn't exactly what she knows.

"It was my pleasure," he says then, as if it is the only thing left to say, maybe it is.

"Why?" she asks cautiously, "why would you do it?"

He looks at her then, a hint of incredulity in his eyes. "You're my wife," he says with finality, as if that is it, as though that is everything, even if they both know that it isn't.

"Robert," she says with a hint of warning and insistence, a bit of pleading. She needs to know. She wants to know.

"Because you always celebrated it," he tells her finally. "We have always celebrated it, too, and it didn't matter to you that I was English, you said we all had something to be thankful for. I wanted for you to still be able to experience that even if you don't remember us celebrating it together, even if there is a chance you'll forget it tomorrow." He looks down at his lap and fiddled with his fingers. "And I had selfishly hoped that it would somehow spark something in you, that though your mind might not remember, your heart would do, something, somehow."

The said heart lurches inside of her and she hadn't realized she's doing it until she's already done it. With trembling fingers she takes his chin in her hands and makes their eyes meet. Blue on blue, both holding the desperate plea for her to remember, their eyes meet.

"It did," she confesses with a wry smile, heart still hammering in her chest and fingers still trembling. Her eyes water at the sight of his brilliant smile. "It did, Robert."

She doesn't quite know how it happened, if she leaned in, or he did, but all she knows is that their lips met, and fireworks exploded behind her closed eyes. It's as though the world tilted, shifted, and she's left out of balance, but she hasn't toppled over because he is there, holding her, steadying her, and she feels great, feels better that she has had in years, or those that she remembers anyway.

Her mind drifts and she finds herself wondering how they are when they make love, if it is this explosive too, and maybe it is, it probably is, if one kiss makes her knees weak. The moment he slides his tongue at the seam of her lips, she is gone, and she gives him access without qualms, letting him explore her mouth and his tongue to play with hers. He takes his time, searching, exploring, leaving no space or crevice of her mouth untouched. He lights a fire inside her, burning her from the inside out as he maps her body with his seeking hands and exploring fingers. She lets him, lets him because it feels wonderful to be touched this way, to be loved this way…by him. And if she still is unsure whether or not she loves him, it doesn't matter now, because his lips, mouth and tongue are doing things to her that makes her want to forget about it.

She will psychoanalyze in the morning, if she remembers still. And if she doesn't, well that should both be a shame and a blessing.

"Robert," she moans once he lets her mouth go and trails soft, open-mouthed kisses down her exposed throat. God, she feels good. But, "We need to stop."

And she'll regret as she sleeps alone in her giant bed that she asked him to do so, but she'll probably thank herself come morning too.

He pulls away faster than she can blink, and looks at her apologetically, eyes filled with remorse and pain—pain that might not just be on the very physical level.

"I'm sorry, Cora, I got carried away, and I," he tries to tell her but she shushes him with her index finger on his lip.

She smiles at him. "Don't worry," she says in a whisper. "I quite enjoyed myself." Her smile turns into a grin, before turning into a frown. "And if I was just sure that I won't forget the next day, I won't have asked you to stop."

She tells herself that it doesn't mean she loves him, or anything like that, because she cannot possibly love him when she doesn't even remember him.

And she almost believes it.

 **…**

Two days after Thanksgiving, Cora's memory of the past few days are still in tact. Something that Robert had been so thankful for. After all, that had been some kiss, and he would feel ever so brokenhearted if she ends up forgetting it come the next day. Of course, he won't have held it against her, it is out of her control after all, but he cannot deny that it would hurt.

Today, he's asked her out on a date, and she'd agreed. He had wanted to woo her, and though there might be a chance that she won't remember the next day, well that is a risk he is willing to take. He can live in the here and the now, as long as it is with her.

"Are you ready?" he asks as he knocks on the door of her bedroom. He's been ready for a few minutes now, and is only waiting for her. Martha had patted him on the back with a sly grin, telling him encouraging words that had undoubtedly bolstered his confidence.

"Coming," she calls out from the other side of the door. "I'm almost finished." The door knob turns as she speaks, and then she emerges out of the room decked out in acid wash skinny jeans, black boots and grey slouchy shirt. Her favorite navy pea coat is draped across her arm, and she looks divine. "You ready to go?"

 _Yes_ , he thinks, _as soon as I find my jaw somewhere on the floor_ , but he doesn't say that, instead he smiles, nods and offers her his arm, which she takes gladly. They trudge downstairs, to be greeted by Martha who has set up camp strategically by the den.

"Have fun," she tells them, kissing both their cheeks before ushering them out of their own house. "But not _terrific fun_ , don't do anything I won't be doing."

Robert could feel warmth creeping up his cheeks, and he looks at his wife to find that she is equally just red, possibly even more so. He chuckles.

Through out the day, he tours her around London, taking her to the places she used to love, places they have always gone to together. He brought her to the London Museum where he'd brought her for their first day.

"I wanted to impress you," he's admitted with a sheepish smile as they roamed the cavernous halls of the museum. "You told me you loved art, and you _were_ studying art. I ended up being so impressed with you, though."

She chuckles and nods, looking happy to be told of the stories of them, together.

He brought her around to a restaurant where they had their first ever dinner together. He'd told her of the story of how he'd almost tripped their waiter because he'd been tapping his foot nervously. She had laughed and he told her that she was no better, almost spilling wine on him because she had been so nervous, she'd knocked the glass off the table.

He'd brought her next to the hall where one of their friends had conducted a party where they had met. It had been a wonderful night, he recalls, and she'd been equally wonderful, graceful and resplendent in her white and gold dress. She'd blushed, and he thinks that if he isn't already so besotted with her, he'd fall for her all over again.

She asks of other places, had they been to the London eye, and he answers with yes, they have, it's a funny story actually, and he regales the story of how he's surprised her with a ride to the Eye, only to find out that she is actually acrophobic, prompting her to pummel her chest before burying her face into it, until he's convinced her to look out and view the breathtaking sight of London at night. She'd gasped then, her smile had lit up brighter than the city lights.

He remembers, remembers so well, and while she cannot do so too, he's all too willing to supply the information.

They'd come home that night with smiles on their faces, and she'd allowed him to walk her to her door.

"Is this the part where you kiss me goodnight?" she asks, teasingly, her fingers playing with the top buttons of his pyjama shirt. "After all, that's what guys do at the end of the date, right?"

He chuckles, but doesn't answer, only leans down to capture her lips and kiss her. She throws her head back, making it hit the wooden door with a dull thud. It doesn't deter her, her arms slipping around his neck to pull him closer. He pulls away after a while and rests his forehead against hers.

"Goodnight," he tells her breathlessly.

"Goodnight," she says equally as breathless. "Thank you for tonight."

"You're welcome," he says with a smile, a squeeze of her waist, before he is letting her go and watching her slip to her room and close the door with one last wave.

He sleeps that night, feeling the world is within his reach. He doesn't know what would come but this is progress, and he is thankful for that.

He wakes up the next day, still reeling from the wonderful night he's had with Cora. He seeks her out, and finds her in the den, looking frazzled. She spots him, and he looks at her questioningly.

"Who are you?" is all she asks him, but it is enough for his heart to break into many pieces, and his world to crumble.

* * *

 **A/N: That was fluffy, right? :) Let me know what you think! :)**

 **Italics on the first half are part of Cora's journal! :)**


	8. 8- Time's supposed to heal you

**A few things before we begin:**

 **1, there is a new story from yours truly because i fancy myself prolific and really absolutely deranged as though i got no life. I don't. It's Cobert, it's called Crimson, and no matter how crazy you think I am, do give it a shot.**

 **2, This is long and will probably look like it's written by both Jekyll and Hyde, it's kind of off, not my fave but i never do like anything i write, so please just be gentle when you're reaming my ass for writing so horribly.**

 **3, I'd like to thank everyone for your patience and support and understanding and your willingness to go with me through this ride, because honestly, I'm a bit surprised people read my stuff.**

4, I hope it is not too forward of me to ask, but if anyone could make me a cover image for this story or collide or crimson I will love you forever.

as usual, mistakes are mine, always have been.

 **Anyway, that's it, mostly so enjoy beauties!**

* * *

 ** _Chapter Eight_**

 _They say time's supposed to heal you, I haven't done much healing_

"Who are you?" she asks him with a quivering voice, the fear in them palpable even to her. Even her hands were shaking, and she couldn't seem to stop. She finds a pair of eyes staring at her, the pain in them flowing through.

She has woken finding herself in a strange room, and she'd been panicked, not minding anything from her surrounding and just rushing downstairs whilst trying to make sense of what is happening to her. She doesn't know where she is, a fact that had become even more apparent when she'd found herself in the den and had still been unable to pinpoint exactly where she is. She had been on the verge of tears when she heard someone behind her and she'd found a man staring at her blankly…still staring blankly, to be quite honest.

She repeats her question more firmly, "Who are you?"

She watches him swallow, averting his eyes and drawing in breath as though it is his strength, "I'm Robert," he says, but the name means nothing to her currently. "Have you not read your journal today, darling?"

She looks up at him in confusion. "What journal?" she asks with a little bit of apprehension. She is conversing with a virtual stranger who appears to be sharing her shelter.

"The journal where you put your memories, you keep it on your side table," he explains calmly. But she isn't easily persuaded or calmed, and she stares at him with a modicum of fear and confusion.

Fortunately for him, she notices her mother walk in the room and she exhales in relief, running past the man— _Robert—_ to throw herself at her Mother's arms. Her mother stands stiff with confusion at first, before Cora feels Martha's arms wrap around her. Martha whispers soothing words onto Cora's ears, and it does help a bit.

"Maybe you should come up with me and we will find that journal of yours, hmm?" Martha suggests, turning to Cora slightly whilst keeping her arms around her daughter's shoulders.

Cora lets her mother steer her up the stairs, not really entirely certain of where she is headed to. All of it now seems like a horrible nightmare, only she doesn't know how and when she'll wake up. What is worse is that she understands, fully, that this is her reality.

"…And you've been doing so well," Cora hears Martha mutter and she turns her head to look at her mother.

"Who?" Cora asks, confused now. How long has she been like this?

"You and Robert," Martha says without missing a beat, and she looks at her daughter with pity that Cora really doesn't want or need right now.

Right at this moment what she needs and wants are answers.

…

Robert watches his mother-in-law steer his wife up the stairs to her bedroom, where hopefully they could locate the journal that had been missing. He feels despondent, dejected, defeated, with the recent events. He feels like he has fallen and he is entirely unsure how to get up from it.

Things have been going so well, with Cora remembering for longer periods of time now, and with her allowing him to kiss her like she had the night before, with their date, and mostly, everything that has unfolded the past few months. Now, it feels like he is back to square one.

Technically, he does understand that he isn't back to square one, he knows that. It is a momentary set back, a page in their book where it's been left blank, but he is sure that they could start writing their story again. But though logically he knows this, his heart aches as the image of her looking at him with fear and confusion pops in his mind. It reminds him of that very first night in the hospital where she had been so confused and afraid, her memories of the past six years wiped from her mind. She had looked at him blankly, the recognition so very absent from her eyes, and the fondness in which she used to regard him—all that gone.

He sighs, now, as he makes his way to the couch and sits down. He lets his elbow rest against his thighs, his head falling onto his open palms. He is frustrated, sad, tired, heartbroken yet again, not only for himself, but also for Cora, his wife—mostly, for her. It is hard for him, no doubt, but it must be so much harder for her because it is her life, once again, that has been wiped from her mind.

He consoles himself with the fact that tomorrow, she might not forget. And that maybe one day, she never will.

He tries to distract himself, and it doesn't work, he still keeps on thinking of his wife, upstairs, probably trying to find her journal, and when she does, she'll probably be crying again because of what she might find out about herself and her condition. He wants to be the one to console her, wants to be the one who wraps his arms around her and catch her, comfort her, but he knows very well he cannot be, not yet and not now, so he pretends that distraction works.

He makes himself some tea, and picks at the breakfast that Mrs. Patmore had gone through the trouble to prepare. He doesn't taste the food, and only mechanically is he even able to eat. His mind wanders, and he cannot quite help himself from wondering what is next now.

He is so deep in thoughts that he is surprised when the chair beside him makes a scraping sound against the floor and he looks up to find his mother in law, looking so tired and so defeated.

Panic rises, but he tamps it down.

"Is she okay?" he asks, getting the immense feeling of de ja vu working its way through his mind. He awaits the answer with baited breath, almost too sure that Cora is not at all okay.

"She's fine," Martha says with a sigh, but of course they both know that Cora is everything but fine at the moment. "She's confused, but she's asked not to be disturbed as she goes through every page of her journals. We found it lodges between the mattress and the headboard, no wonder she hadn't seen it." Martha purses her lips. "I just hope she doesn't fly off the handle again when she finds out about her father and the baby."

Of course. How could he forget?

He nods at his mother in law and then sighs, head dropping and tears prickling his eyes. He doesn't cry, of course not, not in front of anyone anyway—the nights he spends crying himself to sleep are not to be known by anyone but himself.

"I hope so," he agrees, not really knowing what to say anymore. They've been through this, quite a lot, but it doesn't make it hurt less.

"We all know there would be setbacks," Martha reminds him, and he knows this, of course he does. "But don't worry, it's not like we're back to square one."

He's had the same thought, but it doesn't feel like that right now.

"I just wish it would end," he says solemnly, looking up from his cup to stare at a wall. "Not for me, but for her. I just wish she doesn't have to hurt so much, anymore."

"I know," Martha mutters, just as she reaches for the breakfast that he knows she won't be able to taste, as well, given the events of this morning. "In due time, I know it would all be okay."

He nods. He certainly hopes so.

 **…**

Cora scans the pages of her journal, the current one, as she's been told that she has two—one for the past and one for the more recent events. She has explained her condition in the very first entry elaborately, going through so much detail about what it is and what she might feel upon waking.

 _"_ _I feel sad and lost, confused and afraid. That is perfectly normal. It is, after all, six years of my life stolen from me by this amnesia, what's even worse is that I might not remember this tomorrow, when I wake once more. But I know I shouldn't be afraid. I just need to trust mother. And trust Robert. I might not remember it, but he is my husband, and he understands what I am going through, he won't do anything that might hurt or harm me. There are so many things I might not understand, but I don't want to fret. I believe that one day, it will come clear. I only need to take one step at a time,"_ she reads through her entry aloud, letting the words sink into her.

She knows all of these to be true, knows that the Cora who had written that had been afraid too, but had been able to trust the man she couldn't remember. Cora thinks that it might not be so bad, then, after all, only a bit difficult, but she'll learn. She doesn't know him, doesn't remember him, but from the events from this morning, she had been able to read his face and she had seen the utter heart break in his eyes when she'd asked him who he was.

She turns another page, and reads.

" _Today, I found out that my father is dead. I've cried, cursed at my husband and my mother. I cried my heart out because they hadn't told me right away, but now I understand and I must learn to accept that they thought they were doing what is best for me. After all, I won't even remember tomorrow. I should know, as well, that it isn't so much as not knowing, but more the fact that he is gone and I cannot remember if I even had a chance to say goodbye."_

Cora wipes away the tears that have coursed down her cheeks, though she is unsuccessful in her attempt to dry them. Her words are true, and she feels empty. She has always been her father's child, and now, she cannot even remember the last time they had spoken.

" _Today, I've also learned of a child I do not remember. It feels awful that I cannot remember, feels like I'm the worst person because this is my child, and I'm supposed to know, but I don't. And Robert says that I cannot keep blaming myself for that because that is not my fault. I know. I'm sick. I have amnesia. I won't even remember tomorrow when I wake up. But it hurts. And I cannot help but feel guilty. The look on Robert's face had been enough to break my heart, the fact that the baby I don't remember conceiving and bearing is now gone had broken me beyond belief. I don't remember having it, and I don't remember losing it…there is so much heartache. Even worse, I'm going to have to go through it over and over again until I regain my memories and I finally am able to store new ones…"_

Cora sobs uncontrollably as she reads through this specific entry, the heartbreak radiating from the way she's written it, right through her heart and she is no longer capable of holding it in. She feels inconsolable at this point as she slides down through the mattress from her reclining position. She feels as though her heart has shattered, because of a child she has not even known.

She wonders how much pain she can take anymore when she thinks of the life she's ceased to remember.

 **…**

Robert lounges in the den, Martha having gone up to check on Cora once again. He stares mindlessly at the distance, not really knowing what else to do at this point. He supposes he could just leave it up in the air, let nature run its course, but the pain is heavy in his chest and the unknown weighs so much in his mind. He wishes he could change it for her, for his darling wife, but he cannot, and he knows this to be a fact.

He hears the doorbell ring, but he is not in the proper state of mind, so he lets it be, certain that whoever it is, can go to hell for all he cares. Right now, he cannot even face himself in the mirror, much less talk to anyone.

He isn't sure how to deal with people, not yet. In the first few weeks of Cora's accident, his colleagues have expressed their concern, had offered their sincerest apologies and even lent ears to him so he could talk to anyone. But he had been to embedded in his pain that he hadn't taken anyone on it, had actually preferred to be left alone to cry over his inability to protect his wife. He'd blamed himself, so much so, that every time he even sees his wife, he had the biggest urge to go run himself with a car. Of course, that wouldn't help, and he knows it too (he'd known it then, too, and it had been one of the reasons why he hadn't attempted to do so).

His parents had offered to travel to the city, be his support beam through all of this, but he had declined, wanting nothing but to be alone for a moment, and knowing as well that Cora won't have been comfortable. He had been so worried about her, that he'd declined the support he'd been offered, but he'd known as well that Mama would have been reluctant to go anyway, so that had been fine.

Rosamund, his sister, had wanted so much to visit, to help him deal with the pain, to comfort him, but he'd shut her out. She had been patient, understanding even and it had been a surprise at first, that she hadn't tried to push her way into his troubles and pain, but it had been welcomed. He hadn't known how to deal with her then.

To be honest, he wouldn't know how to deal with her now either, and so he hopes that it isn't her and her husband that have come to visit.

Only, he should know by now that nothing ever goes his way as he looks up and finds his sister entering the threshold, a sympathetic look crossing her face once she's taken him in. He must look so pathetic, in his pyjamas, hair in disarray having been uncombed (and also from the many time he'd run his fingers through the strands, out of frustration, anger, defeat), and his eyes glassy from the unshed tears.

"Oh Robert," Ros utters as she runs to his side and takes him in the comfort of her warm embrace. It was only a matter of time before Rosamund would come and visit him, he should have known that—she'd already spent so much time away from him. "What happened?"

Robert now feels unstable, feels the floodgates open and the dam break, and his tears run down his cheeks like a storm. He sobs, body shaking and heart breaking. He loves Cora, loves her so much that it physically hurts him to see her this way.

"Is she okay?" Ros asks. He fees the concern radiating off of her, and he tries to stabilize himself long enough to answer.

"Yes," he tries to let out. He nods once as he pulls away. He stays silent for a few minutes as he tries to compose himself. "She's fine, well, physically anyway. She's been getting better, you know, she's been remembering longer now. But today, today she doesn't remember."

The absolute pity and heartbreak in his sister's eyes makes him look away.

"She has these journals, where she records her daily activities so she knows…she reads them when she forgets…but today it got stuck between the mattress and the headboard and she came down here. I found her, and she looked at me, Ros, with fear and confusion, and she asked me who I was. she doesn't know. Doesn't remember me. I'd always known this could happen, she has woken up without memories before, since the therapy, but…" he pauses as he takes a breath. He feels like shit, feels like a child as he sobs, but is unable to stop the tears from coming. Rosamund is silent, waiting for him to continue. "But she usually stays up in her bedroom for a while, all through breakfast sometimes, sifting through her journals and when she comes down, she's tentative, timid even, but this is the first time she's looked at me with trepidation. And this is the first time she's asked me, again, who I was."

He breaks down once more after his last word and his head falls to his palms, as he feels Rosamund take him into her arms, her hand soothing up and down his back.

But he cannot be consoled. Not yet, no he cannot be.

 **…**

Cora must have been a masochist. Or at least that is what she's deduced of herself as she remains in her bedroom, way past lunch (her food had been delivered to her by one of their employed help), as she'd refused to deal with her mother and her said husband. She'd combed through the journals again, feeling exhausted and reborn, confused and dead. It's a rollercoaster of emotions it seems, as she reads every entry, from the new and the old, giving herself a few minutes in between to digest. It doesn't work, her mind is in a jumble and it is a rather large mess, but she likes to pretend that she can deal with it and she is fine. The thing, though, is that she is not.

She's had a good life, from what she could read from her entries, she'd had a pretty good life. There had been bumps and adversaries on the way, but she'd managed to be happy, with her husband on her side, and the rest of her family. There had been a mention of Rosamund too, who is apparently her husband's sister, of an estate in Yorkshire owned by Robert's family that she has fallen in love with. There too had been a mention of a distant relative named Isobel, who she had met in passing, from a party in the estate. Pity that she cannot remember it now.

But what her heart aches most to remember had been her love with her husband. She had written so fondly of him, had clearly loved him dearly, and she had in turn been able to feel the way he loved, _loves_ , her. There have been moments when she'd find herself tearing up at some of the events she's read, aching so much to have it all back.

 _"_ _He had finally admitted his feelings. After a year of knowing and dating each other, he's finally said it, the three words I've been longing to hear. I had been afraid at first that it had been nothing but a game to him, a momentary stop on his way, but this is real now, he's admitted to being in love with me, too, and I cannot help but feel like my heart is going to explode from the happiness I feel. He loves me, even better: he is in love with me. The way his blue eyes had sparkled when he'd said it, though he'd been nervous and shy to admit it at first, I will never forget it…his smile, the way he smelled, his clothes, his lips as he said the words, and then on mine…it will forever be engraved in my memory."_

Ironic how she remembers none of that, she feels like she's spoken too soon.

This one had been from the older journal, the one she's kept through the years and had documented her relationship with her husband. It had been beautiful, most of the entries being happy ones. But she cannot remember any of it. With a frustrated sigh, she chucks the journal and crawls out of the bed to take a shower, hoping she'd get some clarity if she does.

Probably not.

She decides to stay inside her bedroom for the rest of the day.

 **…**

The day is downhill after that as Cora refuses to have to do anything with him or her mother for that matter. Rosamund had stayed, until she had to leave for dinner with her husband. She'd offered to stay and just have Duke come over at Robert's, but Robert had vetoed that quickly, saying that at least one of them had a chance at ending the night in a better note. Rosamund had left with great reluctance, but had left nonetheless, after a lengthy goodbye from him and Martha.

Martha had opted to rest in her bedroom too after lunch and a bit of chat with his sister, unable to deal with the emotional stress the day had given them. He knows she had checked on Cora before she's sequestered herself in the guest bedroom, and though he longs to do that himself, he refrains. It's probably for the best that he doesn't bother his wife right now, not while her memories aren't at its best.

He spends dinner alone (Martha had opted to follow her daughter's footsteps and take it in her bedroom), the empty silence being his only companion. It is deafening how loud the silence had been, and he had quickly lost his appetite after the second bite.

He roams around the silent and dark house, ghosting through every room as he is assaulted by the memories he's built with his wife. This is their home, every single nook and cranny, every space and crevice holding a piece of their marriage and love, but none that she remembers now. None that she will remember for a long while.

He feels incomplete, like a part of him is gone and torn away from him, stolen by grief and unfortunate events that have transpired since his wife's accident. He'd like to blame someone, but he cannot, there is no one to blame.

He drifts to the pantry mindlessly, going to the liquor cabinet almost automatically. He takes the strongest alcoholic beverage and pours himself a glass, and then another, the fiery feeling soothing down his throat all too welcomed by him. He pours himself another one, and before he knows it, he's almost downed half a dozen.

The alcohol numbs the pain down, he reasons to himself, trying to justify his behavior, knowing that he couldn't—drinking is no solution.

But nothing ever is, and so drinking it is, until he finds away to reconcile himself with the pain of possibly waking up to a day like this one.

He is pouring another glass when he hears the door squeak, and he stiffens, replacing the bottle where he's found it, before he holds the glass tightly in his arms, knuckles turning white almost with his grip. Not that it matters, for his heart is pounding and his mind is racing. Slowly, he turns, eyes widening, and his throat growing dry.

"Cora," he barely manages.

 **…**

" _He loves me,"_ Cora reads aloud. She holds her journal up over head as she lies sprawled on the bed. She's had her shower long ago, has refused to have any dinner because she knows she isn't able to keep it down anyway. She has taken into reading through the journals once more, now choosing the more recent one, the one which documents her daily activities. Most of those entries had been painful to read, but she'd sensed a kind of security, even contentment, through the pages, as though she had been willing to accept it. " _He loves me, he's said so, and I feel it. And I can feel his heart breaking every single day that I don't and cannot remember. He doesn't blame me, in fact, and sadly, he blames himself. There isn't anything he could have done though. It just happened. He loves me, I can feel it…but I wonder if it is really me he loves…or the woman I am supposed to be."_

Cora sighs and flips the page once more, the weight now too heavy in her chest.

" _I can feel his longing. He longs for the wife he knows, the wife he remembers, but I cannot. I know even without him saying, that he expects or at least he hopes that I'll remember and we will find our way to each other again. But what if I don't? What if I cannot? Will he stay by my side? And can I in good conscience let him, even if I know that I might never be the woman he wants me to be, ever again?"_

She shakes her head this time and flips again. This time, she reads the most recent one, the one from yesterday.

" _I had the most spectacular day. Robert has taken me to the places that he and the old me used to go to. He is wonderful, and I had seen in his eyes the merriment when he'd told me the stories of his love, our love. I felt him, felt it, but I cannot remember. And I had been so caught up in all of it that I let him kiss me goodnight. Not that I regret it, the kiss had been too spectacular…but I'm afraid. I'm afraid because I am not even sure what that would mean for us now. Does this mean I have feelings for him, even if I cannot remember him? Yes, maybe I do. But do I love him, as much as he loves me? I don't know that. And how long can he wait for me? Is forever long enough for him to keep loving me?"_

The words shoot bullets into her heart and she feels physical pain from all of it. Everything is unclear.

Closing the journal and scribbling quickly the events of the day, she then stows it away where she can see it clearly in the morning. She places it right on her bedside, not wanting to take the chance that she loses it again tomorrow. After that, she crawls out of the bed and pads out of the bedroom in search of her husband.

It is late, he might be asleep, but she needs to tell him some things, needs to get things off her chest. She is worried that she might not remember it tomorrow, and she really wants to tell him now. If she is honest, she isn't certain how to say it, or what the exact words should be in all of this, but she needs to talk to him, to make him understand. She finds him in the library, drinking, and her heart goes to him, she understands now how he feels, she might not know exactly, but she can imagine.

"Cora?" he stammers once he turns and finds her standing by the entryway. He looks a bit dazed, confused, but he offers her a smile—one that turns to be more of a grimace.

She smiles at him too, before she enters, taking a seat on one of the couches. He looks at her questioningly, and she pats the space beside her, willing him to take the seat even if she does feel kind of nervous.

"Cora?" he repeats, asking his question without all the words.

"I wanted to talk to you," she tells him, watching as he puts his glass down and takes the steps towards her, sinking down on the couch next to her. He looks at her, his heart in his eyes. "I wanted to apologize." She sees him ready to protest and she holds her hands up and shakes her head. "Let me finish please." At his nod, she does. "I want to apologize for what I'm putting you through. I know it isn't easy for you, to watch me, day by day forget the memories we shared. I know it cannot be easy to live with me knowing that there is a large chance that tomorrow, I might not remember this conversation, much less who you are."

He nods, but doesn't speak.

"I just…she loved you," she whispers, looking away because she is embarrassed and unsure of what she is saying. He is silent, probably wondering what the hell she's talking about. "Your Cora, she loved you, very much. I could see it in the way she, or rather, I've written those entries long ago. I don't know how your last conversation with her went, but she did love you, if she's ever neglected to tell you."

It doesn't escape her notice that she's talking about her past self as if she's a separate entity, and she is pretty sure that Robert notices it too.

"If she has forgotten or had been too busy, then I could assure you she did," she says then pauses, breathing in deeply. Here comes the hard part. "But I, me…the woman in front of you, speaking to you about how much her old self loved you…I am unsure. I know I am her, your Cora, but, I don't feel like I am her. I don't think I could reconcile myself with the woman I used to be, the one you remember, The one you want me to remember. And lord knows how badly I want to be, to spare you of the pain when you have obviously loved her so much, but I cannot. I cannot find her in the depths of my soul, or in my brain. And I don't think I could ever live up to her."

Tears have now escaped her eyes and they course down her cheeks. Robert reaches up to wipe them away, and she lets him. He offers her small smile, pained though as it may be. "I know you might not recall this, but I've told you before, I only want you. You, as in every part of you, those that remembers, and those that might not. I have made a vow to love you, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse. And I know you cannot remember now, and you might never, I accept that, but it doesn't matter because I love you. Completely. Madly. Irrevocably." He caresses her cheek and she cannot help but close her eyes and relish in his touch. "I can never give up on you. I never will."

She looks up at him. "We'll be alright, won't we, Robert?" she asks, though she isn't entirely sure that they will be.

He nods and takes her hand, before leaning in to kiss her forehead.

God, she surely hopes so.

 **…**

The months roll by, and before they know it, it is Christmas. Robert has assumed it would be a quiet affair, just him, Cora and Martha, maybe Rosamund and Duke. Despite the fact that Cora remembers more now, her mind finally functioning correctly and its faculties partially restored—as she'd often say—it isn't the same with her memories of the past six years gone. Sure, she knows of it, on days she remembers and isn't overwhelmed by her condition, but it's mostly second hand. It's come from a little book, a journal, sometimes from his own mouth when he regales her stories of their past, but it isn't the same. It isn't the same as experiencing it, or remembering that she's indeed experienced it.

He doesn't want to overwhelm her. He wants to make this journey as smooth as is possible for her. Mother, though, had quite different plans and had insisted that they come over to Yorkshire, saying that it would do Cora a lot of good to have some fresh air in her lungs and a new perspective. Maybe, she would even find the peace of mind in able to jumpstart her recovery. Of course, these are all just a bunch of cock and bull, as far as he is concerned, and when he'd opened the topic to Martha, although reluctantly, he had been surprised to find that she agreed with Mama. Robert couldn't help but feel like he had been just ganged up on. Furthermore there is nothing that he hated more than taking the choice away from Cora.

With the circumstances as it is, however, the choice really isn't upon her, and though she is getting better, she is far from the best that she could be, or that he hoped she is, and so rather than press the issue at hand, he acquiesces to Mama's request and schleps his wife and mother-in-law over to Grantham.

Cora is wide-eyed and surprised, wondering over the large castle of a house the Crawley's call home, that much he can tell by the gasp that had escaped her mouth once they had arrived. Martha is, of course, unfazed, having come to visit a thousand times over. Their head housekeeper, Mrs. Hughes, greet them along with the rest of the staff, and of course his parents. He shoots his wife a look, and her anxiety is written clearly across her face for everyone to see. Martha throws a glance his way, even as his own parents seem oblivious to this mere fact.

"Come winter, come spring, come fall," Martha says in lieu of a greeting as she makes her way to his parents and offers Mama a kiss on the cheek and Papa a hug, "and Downton and the people in it still stands."

Cora, who has been faring better lately with her memory, and has in fact woken up with her memory from the previous week still intact, leans over to him and whispers, "Downton?"

They have hung back a little as his parents and her mother chat. The chauffeur takes their luggage from the boot of the car, and then tips his hat at them, prompting Robert to nod, before he excuses himself and drives away. Some of the staff inch forward to take their things, greeting him with enthusiasm, and slight trepidation for Cora. Mother must have warned them of Cora's current condition.

Robert nods, placing a hand at the small of his wife's back to nudge her forward gently. She seems to have been stuck to the ground—out of fright, out of awe—probably both. "Yes, the Downton Estate," he whispers back, suddenly hit once more of the fact that his wife no longer remembers (the journal is a big help, but he supposes that there is a lot of information in there that gets lost in translation), "That's the name of the estate."

He watches as a frown steals across her face. The gravel scrunches under the sole of her shoe, but she doesn't seem to take notice of anything, and is more immerse in her confusion and fascination. "You're not some kind of a Lord, are you?" she asks with apprehension.

There is so much she needs to re-learn about her husband, it seems, not that Robert minds teaching her again.

"No," he says as they move forward to his parents. "Descendants of Lords, however. It's in our family line, but we lost our title and all our other properties save this one after the Second World War."

She doesn't say anything, but nods imperceptibly, just as they reach his parents. Mama is first to greet them, his father and Martha having been engaged in a conversation. She takes one look at Cora and nods.

"Cora," she says, not soft but not gruff either, which is light years ahead of how she usually greets anyone, including father. "I hope the journey has been good for you."

Cora nods and extends her hand. "Yes, it was," she answers politely. "Thank you, Mrs. Crawley."

It doesn't escape Robert's notice the way Mama's eyebrow rises or the way Cora seems to be trembling just on the spot. He sighs, ready to cut in and intercept, when Mama clears her throat and give Cora an awkward pat on her shoulder.

"That's Violet to you, my dear," she intones, surprising Robert, and clearly surprising his wife.

Robert is unable to speak, and lets his mother place a kiss upon his cheek, before watching her retreating form with wonder. He throws a look at Papa who only nods his head at him and follows Mama inside.

Robert doesn't miss the look of surprise etched on Martha's face, either.

 **…**

The house (more like a caste, really, in her opinion) is decked in Christmas fineries, ever corner and every room decorated tastefully and craftily. The wreaths that hang by the door are of every design and different colors, the sprigs of holly and mistletoe peppering the ceiling, and the lights hang beautifully at the windows and wrap around the posts.

The most beautiful part is the gigantic Christmas tree that stood right in the middle of their receiving room, just right by the staircase. It is decorated in little ornaments, most of them made of glass crystals. It is wrapped with white Christmas lights and instead of tinsel, Cora could see a gold and white ribbon snaking up to the star on the top.

Currently, she is standing right in front of it, staring at it with awe and just admiring its beauty. She could tell that despite whatever misgivings she might have of Violet Crawley, the woman has great tastes. A part of her wishes she could remember.

She supposes she cannot complain, granted how it's been a week and a day and she still has her memories in her head, not the ones from the past six years, but the last week. It's good news, it's progress, just as Baxter had told her. And though she had been apprehensive about this trip, she thinks it to be good for her now, now that she's here and she's taken in the full glory of what her husband used to call home. Despite her initial unease, she finds that this, Downton, Robert's home, gives her peace in a way that she cannot explain.

It must be the quiet, she muses as she stares up at the Christmas tree.

She turns her head when she hears a door creak open and then shut close, and finds her husband walking towards her with a smile. She's been told this morning that he's been out on a ride, on a horse—one of the helpers supplied when she's asked—and at first she'd been anxious, convincing herself that it isn't nothing more than the fact that this is _his_ home and it feels like an intrusion if she went around without him, not to mention that she fears she might actually get lost. It has nothing to do with the fact that she seems to want to be by his side all the time these days.

"You have an ornament there," Robert says, sidling up next to her with a soft smile. He looks at her, eyes twinkling.

She looks about him, confounded. She waits him out, waits patiently for him to clarify.

"It's tradition that every member of the family gets to pick one ornament to hang on the tree. It could be anything you like. Papa's a horse, mama's a dove which personally befuddles me, Rosamund picked a sparrow I think, Marmaduke picked a glass train, I picked a lion, I always loved lions when I was a child, it seemed appropriate. And you said once before that it is fitting." He laughs, but she hears the crack in his voice, the break in his resolve as the memories that she doesn't remember come flooding back to him.

"And what did I pick, Robert?" she asks, looking at him now with eyes. She thinks that the really suits him well. It speaks of him, of who he is, of the man that she's known him to be. But she doesn't want him to feel bad, not now, not when Christmas is upon them.

"Could you venture a wild guess?" he teases, and she bites her lip in wonder, trying to think of what she might have picked. She shakes her head and looks at him. He smiles. "Yours is a rose. I picked it, actually, as you have requested. I told you that behind the beauty and its vulnerability, it can still hurt as much because of its thorn. It has spikes, it's not just beautiful. Just like you." He laughs. "I'm sure I totally bombed that explanation for you, but I do hope you understand what I mean and take no offence."

She shakes her head, her eyes watering as she averts them. She understands very well what he means to say and it's touched her to her very core and she doesn't know what to say. The pain in her chest resounds, hurting terribly…her heart aches, guiltily, wishing she could return his affections for her, tenfold.

 **…**

Robert watches his wife as she zones out of the present and drowns in remorse. She is so guilty, so dejected and so defeated from her condition that he could physically see the effect in has in her. Her shoulders drop and her eyes cloud not only with tears but with blame…blame that she puts upon herself over something that she cannot control.

His heart goes to her, for no matter how hard it is for him now, how unimaginable it seems to him that his wife should not remember him and their life together, it must be more unbearable for her.

Something that he has told himself time and time again.

"If you'll excuse me," she says, turning her back from him before he can say a single word and then she's leaving, half running away from her and carrying with her the pieces of his heart.

The saddest part is that he cannot do anything about it…about his heart or hers.

It is with that thought that he takes himself once more to the grounds, far away from the house, outside where the air is fresh and bitter and cold, hitting his skin, refreshing him and his mind out of his silent and quite depressing soliloquy. He walks toward the hill, right where he used to take her out for a walk on their vacations here in the years past, and this doesn't seem like a good idea after all.

But he forges on, walks and walks through the expansive grounds of the place he once called home. He thinks now, with a little bit of bitterness and a lot of pain in his chest, that not even this could wash him with peace, not even the sight of the trees so lush and so green or the fields extending to and fro for miles and miles could be considered home.

She, Cora, is home to him now, and where she goes his heart went, away with her.

He walks with this in mind, missing her falling into step beside him, arm looped around his, keeping him amply warm. He misses her smile, one that she gives to him freely. Now it is guarded, hard to elicit from her. He walks so much, so long, and so far that he doesn't notice how late it has gotten until the skies are dark and the moon has taken the place of the sun.

He makes his way back to the house with haste, knowing with a degree of certainty that Mama is ready to blow her tops now. And though he is used to Mama's wrath, there is always Cora to worry about (Martha can certainly handle herself, and Mama, come to that—always knows how to find their underbelly and strike when she needs to).

Dinner is served when he bursts into the dining room; he takes his seat sheepishly, seeing his sister and her husband have finally arrived, and ignores the disapproving look Mama shoots him. He merely apologizes, which his father waves off with a flick of his wrist, before their maids are serving them the first course.

He can barely eat and he spends most of dinner playing with his food and sending his furtive glances. The only consolation is that his wife is looking at him too, at times when he isn't looking, and when he turns his head she would avert her eyes and blush like a school girl with a crush.

His heart never ceases to hope, it seems.

After dinner, while Papa, Martha, Rosamund and Duke walks to the library to have some drinks and Mama excuses herself, he swallows up all inhibitions and takes a leap of courage and faith.

"Will you walk to the grounds with me, my love?" he asks Cora, whose eyes widen at the endearment, and though he is surprised himself, he doesn't let it show. He has avoided professing his undying love to her too much these past months, it hardly seems fair to beat himself up over a slip of the tongue. He is a creature of habit after all.

Cora nods at him, surprising him after that ruckus (even if it is just in his mind, who's to tell she hasn't seen the turmoil in his eyes?), and they set out for the gardens. It has been Cora's favorite spot in the house after all.

And if he has ulterior motives, like perhaps trying to jog her memory, then who could blame him?

 **…**

The moon casts its milky glow and the few stars spread sporadically across the skies are alight, twinkling, glowing as though the night has been truly blessed by whatever deities there are up there. Robert does not usually believe in them, and neither does Cora, or of what little she remembers of herself, but they both thank them anyway, for this night is beautiful, truly breathtaking.

"Are you alright Cora?" Robert asks as he casts her a side glance. He worries about her, always and still, but he's always known her to be fiercely independent. Quickly, he is learning that her losing five years worth of memories does nothing to tamper that down. But she is uncharacteristically quiet, has been since they've started the walk around the estate, and he's getting worried.

Cora nods slowly, unable to express or even understand what exactly she is feeling. She feels so many different things (is this what love feels like? Does she love him—even when she can't remember?)—she feels an odd stirring in her stomach whenever he is close, that's for sure. She feels Robert's eyes on her and she ducks her head further, not wanting him to see the red tinge that she thinks colors her cheeks right now.

"I'm alright, Robert," she assures him without looking at him—she might melt into a puddle if she does. Instead, she lifts her head up and stares at the sky—the stars are far and few in between, but she knows they're there, knows that billions of miles away, stars glitter in the galaxy, burning, living long enough to make nights more romantic. She smiles as her eyes land on the moon—so regal, so beautiful with its silver glow. "It's a beautiful night," she adds, the smile still in place. Nights like this would be so hard to come by in the city.

"Certainly," he says in a husky whisper, and it's surprising, really, which is why she turns to look at him, only to find him staring at her. It feels like the movies, feels like a romance novel, and they are reliving every cheesy scene that has ever been created and written—but it feels right, feels like they belong—here, together.

Her eyes widen in surprise, and her cheeks flush, and he's certain that she's never looked more adorable than she does right now, and he would gladly take her into his arms and kiss her, without hesitation, with all that he has if he's only sure that she won't run away. But she would, he's sure for he knows her better than she does herself (especially at his moment, when literally he knows more about her than she does, knows about the past five years she doesn't remember). And so he refrains, assures himself that there is time for that yet, but then, when? And for how long does he have to wait? She is worth waiting for forever, until the ends of his days, but then, how long is forever exactly?

He looks away from her, feeling his heart clench at the thought that maybe forever is not enough, that forever might not be enough. He doesn't know the answers to his own queries—chooses, really, not to ponder it for now, because he might go mad, might lose his head and he needs himself sharp now more than ever.

"Robert?" he hears her whisper in that soft, soothing voice of hers and he's sure that he's falling in love with her all over again, sure that his heart will always be hers for the taking, but does she feel the same? Will she ever feel the same?

Snapping out of his thoughts as she lays her hand upon his arm, his head turns to her and his eyes lock into hers. She is mere inches away, and God, he could kiss her, wants to kiss her, needs to kiss her…but no, no that is a bad idea.

"Yes?" he asks just as softly as a breeze passes by, making them both shiver in surprise. His blue eyes are steady on her equally blue ones, the silver glow of the moon shining and caressing her skin making her even more beautiful and lord help him, he might be the one to actually forget himself this time.

She gives him a shy smile, but lets her hand rest upon his arm. She feels that stirring in her stomach again, feels her blood rush to every part of her body, like adrenaline, only sweeter, and she doesn't know how to explain it, but it feels good, feels nice to be with him here, like this.

"Will you tell me our story?" she asks shyly. She doesn't know why, but she feels as though she's invading some sort of privacy, then again, it isn't like that isn't t? it is their story, his and hers—a part of her that's temporarily lost to her now but still her. She's still the same person, she just needs to find that person within her.

"Our story?" he asks.

"Yeah," she answers with a nod. "The story of how we fell in love."

She holds her breath as the expression on Robert's face changes into something she can't describe. Granted, she doesn't know him that well, but his face does morph from one expression to another, a plethora of emotions flashing in his eyes too fast, too quickly for her to decipher.

She ponders if she should take back her question, but she decides that she can't—she doesn't want to. She wants to know their story, needs to hear it be told to her—again and again, as much and as often as it is necessary. She needs to know Robert and the Cora he's fallen in love with, and hope that someday she might find that part of her again.

 **…**

"The story of how we fell in love," she requests in her quiet voice, blissfully unaware of the sudden pain the shot through his heart.

He should be happy, she's finally coming to him to know of their past, and even as he had taken her in a tour of the city, pointing out places, important places that marked their relationship, it stirs something deep inside him that she should come to him not and request for their story.

He doesn't know where to begin.

"Well, I uh," he begins awkwardly, stammering because he doesn't know how to tell her without wanting to rip his heart out from his chest and tear it from the seams. "We met at a party. A common friend—a friend of yours in America married a mate of mine from University and they had this party. I was already there when you arrived, but you…you walked into the room, in your perfect little black dress and your gorgeous hair and beautiful smile…and it seems as though the world stopped."

"Was it love at first sight?" she asks with a dreamy sigh, looking up at the moon again, and he can see the shadows dancing across her face, and his heart bleeds even more with her beauty.

It had, at that time, felt like he had been struck by something and everything around them had ceased to move. He had later denied falling for her that instant but—

"Yes, it was," he admits, and then looks down, blush rising up to his cheeks as he adds, "Only, I didn't realize it then. I had been stubborn you see. I was adamant that no one really ever fell in love at first sight. I ate my words then." He sighs. "It took me awhile before I admitted to myself, much less to you that I had fallen in love with you from the very first time ever I saw your face."

Suddenly, Roberta Flack's voice resounds in his head and he offers his hand to her, making her look up in confusion.

"May I have this dance?" he asks earnestly, knowing that she must think him foolish, but frankly not giving a damn, as long as she dances with him.

"We don't have music," she protests, though her eyes twinkle in delight, and he can see the eagerness in which she takes up his offer.

He smiles and takes her hand, permissions be damned, and pulls her close. He lays his head at the top of her head gently, she is still a few good inches shorter than him, and then starts humming…humming to the very first song they danced to...which was, strangely, _The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face._

"We danced to this song, once," he tells her, pausing from his humming long enough, pleased when she hums in his stead. "The first time we danced, it was to this song." He paused and then frowned. "It wasn't, however, at the party that I was telling you about. I was a right idiot, and I couldn't even get anywhere near you then. The throng of men who had come to try and steal your attention was of no help."

He remembers it clearly, that first night, how the men had come flocking at her and tried to get her to talk and spend time with them. She had declined some, and had opted to drink with her friends, but by the time, she probably had a vacant or a break from all that attention, he had been long gone. The next time they had met, at a benefit this time, a ball of some sort, and that had been a perfect opportunity for him to ask her.

"You were surprised when I asked you at the charity ball, but you accepted," he says, twirling her and then pulling her back into his embrace. He places a soft kiss against her temple, against his better judgment. Luckily, she doesn't flinch. "And, well…that is how we started. I asked you out to drink, then, after that a few dinners, opera, the museum as I told you was our first date."

She sighs, resting her head against his chest, but he feels her tears dampening the fabric. "I wish I could remember," she says, her voice muffled.

He sighs, his heart breaking just the same. "I wish that too," he whispers into the night.

* * *

 **A/N: Next stop, we get a little turn, hold on sailors, all shall end well. Let me know what you think!**


End file.
